


Into the West

by madame_faust



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bearded Dwarf Women, Durin Family, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarves In Exile, Ered Luin, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-01-15 14:48:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 71,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1308775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Blue Mountains, the Dwarves of Erebor find a settlement after thirty years of wandering and seven years of devastating warfare. But the course of exile never was a smooth one and the mantle of kingship can be more of a burden than a boon. Friendships are formed and tested, family is torn asunder and re-knit, and something like a new life is created here, in the Ered Luin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing and am making no profit from this story.
> 
> It's legit saved as 'Welcome to the Ered Luin,' but I thought that title might be slightly misleading as to how cheerful things are going to be for our favorite band of exiles and their new friends. Still, expect laughs, miscommunication, angst and FEELS as things progress!

Springtime was upon the Blue Mountains at last, after a winter that seemed neverending. Some Dwarrow-folk who did most of their living underground, paid little heed to the seasons above them, but for the miners who had to make the aboveground trek from their homes to their work in the belly of the earth, the lack of slush and frost on the streets was a welcome change.

Rather than slogging their way through inches of icy, muddy water, three young miners took a leisurely stroll through the village en route to the pastry-cook’s for a pre-dawn breakfast.

“Pub tonight?” a handsome, golden-bearded dwarrow-lad of middling height asked his two companions, one short, ginger, and round, the other tall, dark and lanky. “‘Less you’re needed at home.”

“Pub sounds good,” the taller replied with a nod, then the ends of his moustache twitched as he smiled a conspiratorial smile. “Should be some good conversation - as I hear tell, them Longbeards’re here to stay.”

“Where’d you hear tell from?” the shortest of them asked, brow wrinkling. “Who d’you know up them council halls?”

Bofur tapped the side of his nose and winked. “I hears things,” he said sagely. “Round about. Wee little birds, you know.”

“And what’ve your birds been twittering about?” Víli asked, amused where Bombur was skeptical. “That’ll be a sight, eh? Lords and Ladies all, so _I_ hears from me own flock.”

Bombur, familiar with the sensation that his brother and his cousin were having him on, merely made some disinterested sound in the back of his throat and plodded along the roadway toward the bakery, not paying them a lick of attention as they prattled on about royalty and gossipy birds. He didn’t see how the matter affected them a whit and he had his cousin Bifur’s wary disdain of loose tongues telling folks fibs that turned into rumors that got taken for the set-in-stone truth. But then Bombur was a quieter lad by far than his relations and didn’t go much in for talk in any case.

Víli and Bofur were better matched companions than he and Bofur, that was certain. They sounded alike, thought alike, and though they didn’t look a think like one another, their temperaments were entirely the same. It was easy to feel like a fifth cart wheel when he was with them, but most of the time it didn’t trouble Bombur any. Now, for instance, they kept one another entertained and he got to walk along a few steps behind them in relative peace.

Peace, until Bofur grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into an alleyway without warning.

“Hey!” he exclaimed, disgruntled. “What’s the idea - ?!”

“Shh!” Bofur hissed in his ear, a hand going over his brother’s mouth to quiet him, in an odd flip-flopping of their usual roles. “That’s them! ‘Least I think so! Take a gander.”

Bombur didn’t have much choice, pressed up against his brother as he was, unless he going to close his eyes, but that seemed like overkill. Besides, just because he didn’t have any interest in talking about the strangers behind their backs, it didn’t mean he was totally without curiosity. He’d never been all that close to royalty before, after all.

There were five of them passing and of the five, two were well worth looking at, being the tallest dwarves Bombur had ever seen. One was short-bearded, with black hair, blue eyes and an unfortunately short, skinny nose that took away from a face that might have been handsome otherwise. The second was even taller than the first, an absolute giant, brown-haired and dark-eyed. He was impressively broad of shoulder, but slim through the waist, better looking than the first with a notch taken out of his face and a mangled right ear. Bombur might have shrunk back against Bofur just the teensiest bit when he caught sight of that one.

He didn’t have to look on him very long, for his arm was taken by a wee slip of a thing who dragged him down a different path than the other three took. The lass appeared to be around his own age, skinny as a reed, but he didn’t get much of an eyeful, for she quickly turned round. Her hair was black and bound in a thick, three strand braid, hanging to her waist and tied back with a leather thong. Bombur’s eyes went wide at that, it was so simple that he was sure his brother was mistaken about their being royalty; none of his friends or acquaintances dressed their hair so simply and they were common as pebbles, the lot of them.

There was an older lady with them, she would have been considered beautiful with her golden hair and sapphire eyes, but her beard was short - a widow, probably - and she had the sourest expression on her face that Bombur had ever seen. Honestly, she was more intimidating to look at than the giant. Last of all was a dwarf of reasonable height, though thickly built, gone all over grey from the bottom of his unbound beard to the short strands sticking up out of the top of his head.

“Don’t look no different nor anyone else,” Bombur said after a long, uncomfortable bout of staring. They looked, in actuality, like a group down on their luck, though their shorn hair gave them the appearance of more fanatically devoted supplicants on the Day of Remembrance. “Let’s go to breakfast.”

“You can, if that’s what you’re wanting,” Bofur replied vaguely, squinting down at the passers-by. “Which one’s the king, you reckon?”

“Got to be that grey-headed one, eh?” Víli guessed. “Him being the eldest.”

“But hasn’t they got a young fellow?” Bombur asked, looking again despite himself. Even if he wasn’t gossip by inclination, one couldn’t help overhearing certain things, especially with Bofur and Víli for kin. “Could be the big one, he looks awful fierce - nevermind, we’ll find out ere long, I’m sure. Let’s _go_ , elsewise we’ll be late and have nothing to eat ‘til luncheon.”

The motley group was passing by, disappearing in the rest of the hustle and bustle down the high street, which was probably the only reason his brother and his cousin decided to heed him. Though it was the last Bombur saw of the strangers that day, it wasn’t the last he heard of them - Bofur and Víli spent the rest of their walk arguing about who the likeliest candidate for king was amongst them.

Why they found them so mysterious and exciting, Bombur couldn’t tell. He certainly couldn’t muster up comparable enthusiasm; he just felt rather sorry for them all.

* * *

 

The cool marble walls of the council chambers were a sharp contrast to the heat gathering up the back of Thorin’s neck. No matter how many times he met with the representatives of the parliament of the Southern Blue Mountains, he forever felt that he disappointed them; that he was not the dwarf to whom they really wanted to be speaking. It was all he could do to keep from glancing anxiously at the doorway, murmuring, _I’m sure my father will be along in a moment. He’ll know what to say to you._

A pressure on the top of his boot brought him to attention; his mind had been wandering.

Freya’s face was as still as stone, save for the one eyebrow she arched at Bur, the Lord who had been doing the lion’s share of the talking for nigh on a month. It was incredible, Thorin though, how a body could speak for hours and hours for the purpose of repeating the same three points.

_A two-thirds majority of your people must have employment before you can flood our city en masse._

_Longbeard businesses will be licensed on the condition that your interests do not stand in direct competition to those of our craftsmen - with the knowledge that if our people choose to do business with yours it will be of their own free will, not because of encouragement from this council._

_Impoverished members of your camp are your responsibility alone._

That last was the point Bur was hammering home now.

“You understand our position,” he said, encompassing the whole of the Blue Mountains in a single gesture, it seemed.

“Aye, s - ” Thorin bit his tongue to choke back that ‘sir,’ that was begging to escape the back of his throat. If he was to serve as King, Bur was not to be accorded a position above him. If Thorin wanted to serve his people in his father’s stead, he would have to be treated as a king. And if he was to be treated as a king, Thorin needed to demand such treatment from these Lords and Ladies who held his fate and that of his people in their hands. “Aye.”

“We have concerns enough among our own people - infirmity, poverty, homelessness. We have drunk our cup of suffering poured by Longbeard interests,” Bur’s gaze turned steely. On Thorin’s left, Freya stiffened and on his right, Balin sighed. “We can ill afford more suffering on your account.”

“I understand,” Thorin said, trying to keep his voice steady even as the hot flush of shame wormed its way up his back and made hot sweat drip beneath the collar of his tunic. “We’ll keep ourselves to ourselves. Many - not all, but many of our - _my_ people have found employment in the months we’ve made camp in the valley below the mountains.”

“And we are very grateful for the considerations you have shown us,” Balin interjected, a note of genuine warmth in his voice that Thorin could not summon. If Balin’s definition of ‘considerations’ included not being run out of the outskirts of town or rejected at every turn when their old and young sought occupation within the mountains, then Thorin could agree that they were grateful for the ‘considerations’ shown to them.

But then, he recalled with a pang of guilt that twisted his insides, he ought to be grateful. Because Bur was right. All the Clans of dwarven folk suffered grievously in defense of Longbeard lands. Polluted Longbeard lands, a lost homeland that only one among them hand glimpsed and declared closed to them forever. A bloody battle fought for a dream. Maybe they were just as mad as everyone thought they were.

“We do not seek to displace your subjects,” Balin continued, picking up the slack when Thorin found himself at a loss for words. “Our only concern is peace and stability for our people.”

“We fully intend to keep ourselves to ourselves,” Freya added, without her usual charming smile or gracious affect. Her words were clipped and terse, she sounded as out of sorts as Thorin felt. “The livelihoods of your people are in no danger from us, I can assure you; there are hardly enough of us left to make any impact.”

Her words seemed to discomfit Bur and he adjourned the meeting, giving permission for Thorin’s people to rent rooms on a more permanent basis in the heart of the range itself.

It was good news, Balin tried to tell him.

“The way Bur was going, I was convinced he was going to make us wait out the summer in that valley,” he said as they took their leave of the mountain’s interior and stepped out into bright sunlight. “Now we’ve time to get everyone settled before the autumn. Winters are longer in the Ered Luin.”

“You’d never know it from their springtime,” Freya muttered hatefully, lifting the heavy waves of her hair off the back of her neck, vainly hoping for a breeze. “I knew he would relent. There’s no reason to keep us out of his city - if we rent from his people, they’ll take the money from our coffers straight into their pockets. He just wanted us to be sure that he _could_ make us wait if he wanted to. Flexing his sword-arm without handling a blade - pathetic.”

Balin nodded in an accommodating way, but added, “His reasons for keeping us at arm’s length are valid. Anyway, Bur wasn’t acting alone - he’s the mouthpiece for their government, but he isn’t the government itself. The Ered Luin counts among its rulers the nobility of Clans Firebeard and Broadbeam - though the South the Broadbeam presence is - ”

“Balin, I do _not_ require a history lesson,” Freya interrupted him sharply. “Regardless of how many Firebeards or Broadbeams or combinations of the two supported that little spot of maneuvering, the fact remains that it was a paltry bit of powermongering to show us our _place._ No matter if it was five or fifty of them in conspiracy, the insult of it is not to be borne.”

But Thorin would bear it. He had to. His mother knew that and so as they walked through the village, he kept his eyes on the roadway and pointedly did not look at his mother’s face, for he could not withstand her disappointment, not today when he felt thin and wrung-out as an overused rag.

Yet there was still more work to be done. For Thorin counted himself among those who had successfully obtained work - in his case, the promise of work - treking five miles to and from their encampment every day, leaving in darkness and returning in darkness, to a run-down little forge that was selling on the cheap. It was to that place he went after he bid his mother and cousin farewell. They continued on, back to the camps, bringing with them the promise of settling at last.

It was a promise that took nearly five years to fulfill, for they could not simply walk into the Ered Luin and demand a place. There were careful agreements to be made and negotiated, never mind the fact that when they turned their backs on Moria, it was like starting their exile all over again. Wounded, grieved, defeated, leaderless. Leaderless too, for when Thorin stood in place of their king, how could they be said to have good guidance?

Approaching the smithy, Thorin willed himself to relax. To work - really work, hands, muscles and mind trained on one task with a product he could hold rather than the ephemera of treaties and signatures and shaken hands - ought to fill him with some solace. But today was not a day of crafting, it was a day of cleaning and the more he tried to convince his tense shoulders to lay down their guard, the stiffer his movements became.

Before, he could count on Frerin to ambush him halfway to the smithy. To tackle him or leap on him, trying to surprise him or at least make him laugh. A lifetime ago, it seemed, he could count on the greeting of a careless smile and a joke rather than Dwalin’s critical stare or Dís’s anxious eyes staring up at him, wondering if it would be snapping or silence from her older brother.

Neither of them looked up when he let himself in the side door. They were occupied as sweeps, cleaning out the chimney so there wasn’t too much smoke in their eyes, or worse, a fire. Their arms and faces were absolutely covered in soot and there was a fine layer of old ash on every available surface. Thorin bit his tongue so he wouldn’t moan; they were supposed to begin work on the morrow.

“Knock it down and start again,” Dwalin grunted, shoving a long-handled brush up the flue, sending another shower of soot down on the pair of them. “That’s the only way - unless you want to crawl up there.”

Dís stuck her tongue out at him, then spit out the ashes that coated it, “I’d get stuck.”

“You wouldn’t,” Dwalin countered. “Skinny little thing you are.”

It was true, for years Dís had grown up, but not out. Her shoulders stood out clearlybeneath the thin fabric of her tunic and though her trousers were long enough, she had to wrap a thin strip of leather twice around her waist to hold them up. When she crossed her arms, her sharp elbows poked out of holes in her shirt.

“Not skinny enough to climb up a chimney,” she declared. “I could ask Nori, if you’d like, he’d do it if we paid him.”

“Well, I haven’t any money, so there’s nothing doing unless you’ve been holding out on all of us,” Dwalin said distractedly. A small smile of triumph crossed his smudged face when a bird’s nest, long abandoned, fell into the fire pit. “Knew it, knew there had to be a nest stopping it up.”

“Did not,” Dís shook her head, a smile lurking around her mouth, amusing herself by being contrary.

“Did so.”

“Did _not.”_

“Did _so.”_

“Did - oh, there you are,” she blinked up at Thorin who had been standing over them for five minutes, unnoticed. He had been rather reveling in the feeling, often he felt as if he was too much at the center of attention. “Did you bring something to eat?”

Damn. And he knew there was something he’d forgotten.

“I thought we’d take a walk into the town proper,” he said, lying not altogether smoothly to cover his lapse. “As we’re going to be staying here for quite some time.”

“They caved in?” Dwalin asked, wiping his face with his sleeve, smearing the mess, not cleaning it in the slightest.

“I’d not call it a cave-in,” Thorin said, looking around for some rag or other that wasn’t absolutely filthy to offer to his sister and cousin, finding nothing even remotely suitable. “I’d call it a dent. A chip in the rock is more like it. But we’ve permission to find lodging, if any’ll have us.”

Dís let out a delighted whoop and Dwalin looked pleased, though he didn’t vocalize his approval. Thorin wasn’t surprised. Once they’d slept in beds of carven stone, stuffed with down and laden with furs and blankets. Dís was only grateful for the promise of stone walls and a roof over her head. Thorin managed a smile for her, but it probably looked more like a grimace.

“Conditions?” Dwalin asked.

“Of course,” Thorin rolled his eyes, losing some of the stiffness he’d adopted in the council chambers. “They don’t want us on the dole, we’re not to interfere with established business - I don’t see that becoming a problem, half the region still curses our names, I can’t see them giving us their money after they gave us their sons.”

“Ey,” Dwalin spoke up sharply. “They volunteered, we didn’t force their hands, did they? Our forces took the worst of it.”

To describe the ‘worst’ of Azanulbizar implied that there was a ‘best’ of Azanulbizar, but Thorin did not feel like arguing. For all the tales he’d heard of glorious combat and victory triumphant at war’s end, he had only ever tasted the bitterness of loss. Combat itself was never ignoble, if one fought with honor and bravery. That was Thorin told himself every time he saw his grandfather’s desecrated brow flash before his mind’s eye, his brother’s broken body, his father’s vacant expression. If he said it enough, he hoped he would eventually believe it.

“Are we eating?” Dís asked, poking Thorin in the side with the handle of her broom, effectively startling him out of his morose thoughts.

“Aye,” he said, putting an arm around her shoulders and dragging her close by his side. Dís didn’t mind, she wound an arm loosely about his waist and rested her head on his shoulder. Dwalin followed behind and Thorin asked, “Aren’t you going to lock up?”

“Nothing to steal,” Dwalin replied. “If someone did get it in their head to go thieving, I’d thank them for their pains - at least whatever they take’ll leave a clean patch.”

Years on the road, wandering in and out of various dwarrow settlements, benefitted them in some ways. All three of them learned to spot a good eatery from half a mile off. Not the places that were located in the biggest shops or had the brightest signs. They kept their eyes peeled for long lines and their nostrils flared for good smells. A likely looking place with no name and a queue out the door appealed to them. The sign overhead was a carved wooden loaf of bread, faded, but not in danger of falling off its chains and injuring the waiting patrons.

Without anyone making the suggestion aloud, the three of them stood at the back of the queue and made steady progress toward the interior of the shop. No tables, it wasn’t a tea shop or a coffeehouse where dwarves might be expected to pass leisurely hours. The patrons appeared to be common working folk, smiths, miners, cabinet makers and other local artisans. The proprietor, a short, robust fellow with a ruddy face and a beard the exact color and texture of straw greeted everyone by name - and with orders in hand, a tribute to efficiency in the kitchen and a prodigious memory on the dwarf’s part.

Thorin was the only one of them who went in. Dís and Dwalin haunted the front step, not wanting to trek muck all over the place upon entry.

“Afternoon,” the dwarf nodded at him, his pleasant expression not waning as he grinned up at Thorin. “What d’you fancy - or have you been here before? Got pork pies today, ground with fresh spices and the crust is so light if you don’t get ‘em now they’re liable to float away on you.”

Thorin managed a small smile and replied, “Six, if you please.”

“Six?” he asked, amused. “If that’s your pleasure - mind, I don’t go easy on me fillings.”

“I’ve two companions outside,” Thorin nodded toward the door. “They’ll help me finish the lot.”

“Outside?” the dwarf asked, squinting toward the shop windows. “They’re giving you a copper for delivery, I hope.”

“I don’t think so,” Thorin replied, smile growing a bit more. The dwarf’s good humor was infectious. “They’ve been sweeping out a chimney all day, didn’t want to dirty the place.”

“Oh, fat load o’nonsense!” he exclaimed, waving to someone in the kitchen to come forward. “Thyra, dearie, we’ve got some bashful folk on the step, tell ‘em to come along - don’t be worrying ‘bout the state o’the floors, lad, we gets all sorts here.”

“Can’t be no dirtier than the miners after a long day,” a plump girl with sparkling emerald eyes smiled just as sincerely as the older fellow. “And we’d not do no business if we turned them away.”

She bustled past Thorin, carrying with her the scent of fresh bread and cinnamon. “Come in!” she called cheerfully to Dwalin and Dís, speaking over their protests, “We _insist!_ Wouldn’t be no kind o’bakery if we don’t show our customers hospitality!”

The dwarf, who Thorin took to be her father, she shared his good nose and good humor, blinked a bit once Dwalin ducked in and said to Thorin, “Best make it nine, eh?”

“Nine,” Thorin agreed, counting the pennies in his pocket. When he handed his coppers over in exchange for a heavy wax paper bag filled with pies, he found his sister in conversation with the baker’s daughter.

“Been in town long?” the girl asked. She had a friendly, open manner that Thorin knew his sister took to like a fly to honey and he watched the exchange closely.

“Nah, not in _town,”_ Dís replied, a little certainly after a glance at Thorin just to be sure it was advisable to make small talk. “Just got our legs under us.”

“Well, when you’ve done the job, we’d be happy t’let you come have a look at ours,” Thyra’s father offered. “Six ovens a-running all day and night, it’d be well worth your while.”

Dís smiled and Dwalin scowled. “Thanks all the same,” she said, “But chimney sweeping’s not our trade. We’re smiths.”

“Are you?” Thyra asked interestedly, looking over her shoulder at her father with a bright smile. “Ain’t that something? I knowed them Longbeard lords was coming in and bought out one of the raggedy-looking forges down the way, hadn’t heard nothing else was let. You come along with that lot?”

“We did,” Thorin replied when it became clear that Dís wasn’t going to say anything more without his say-so. Then he cleared his throat, a little embarrassed. He’d worn his best clothes to the meeting at the interior of the mountain, but he well knew his best would be considered another’s rags. At least, they would have been so thought in Erebor.

“Best o’luck to you. I’m called Alfi, don’t be strangers now,” the baker said, without a hint of malice in his voice or a sneer behind his beard. It was a such a welcome change from the barely concealed animosity of side-long looks and scowls that Thorin was almost bowled over by the courtesy and took his hand when it was extended to him.

But then, he considered, the baker and his daughter did not know to whom they spoke. If they were aware of their status as the ‘lords’ coming in, they might be singing a very different tune indeed.

In his mind, he could almost hear his father’s voice, berating him. _Shamed by our legacy, are you, lad? Keeping quiet about what you are; the coward’s way out._

“Have a good afternoon,” Thyra waved at them as they made their way out of the shop. Dís waved back and Dwalin managed a vague approximation of a cordial nod. “Oh! What’re you called, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Dís and Dwalin were already in the street and more hungry dwarves were crowding around the entranceway. Thorin could hardly be blamed if his voice got lost in the crowd as he replied, “Thorin. Son of Thráin.”


	2. Chapter 2

They weren’t _spying_. Not as such. In the first place, spying on the new neighbors would be a sneaky, odd, unfriendly thing to do and as Bofur and Víli were friendliness personified, naturally they would _not_ be spying. In the second place, they were hardly subtle and if they _had_ been spying, they have made a poor go of it and thus they were not spying. Just taking a round-about way to and from work of a morning and an evening. That was all.

Bombur had all but washed his hands of them. “You’ll make us late!” he predicted when Bofur suggested taking a walk through the smithies since forge-fire woke a body up mornings. He’d begun sleeping in and making his own way to work so he would have to join them skulking around the Longbeard forge - not that there was much to see, really.

Víli was always up bright and early, letting himself into the house Bombur shared with Bifur and Bofur, staring breakfast going for them. It was a fine thing to do and Bombur would have been more grateful for it if he was convinced his cousin was cooking out of the goodness of his heart and not because he and Bofur had to get their twice-daily gawping in without catching brimstone from the mouth of the foreman.

Just his luck Bofur spotted his eyes blink open for half a second one morning. He couldn’t avoid breakfasting with them, nor could he think of a reasonable excuse to keep from ambling home with them. Naturally, that’d be the day they were caught. Not by the foreman. What did he care what they did after work?

No, they were caught by someone with a much greater capacity to make them feel ashamed of themselves than the foreman or even the most high-ranking Lord in the mountain proper.

“I got news!” Bofur whispered - honestly it was more of a muffled shout as Bofur was essentially incapable of whispering - to his kinsmen at the end of their workday. “I heard from Lura who heard from her sister Oura who heard from her cousin Gryr - you ‘member him, the jeweler with the missing leg - ”

“I know Gryr,” Víli said impatiently. “Don’t tell me you’ve got to go down a register o’half the village!”

“I were just telling you so you’d know the information I got is _genuine,”_ Bofur explained. “Anyhow, I heard from Lura who heard from Oura who heard from Gryr - only _three times removed,_ now - that the royal family’s taking lodgings in the artisan’s flats down in the southwest peak.”

Víli let out a low whistle and Bombur pretended that he wasn’t listening, picking grime out from under his fingernails with his knife. “That’s good, eh? So they’ve not got such a long walk from the valley.”

“That’s what I says,” Bofur replied proudly. “To a word! ‘Lura,’ says I, ‘That’s a fine thing for ‘em.’ And she says she thinks so too, if they got the permission o’the Lords’n Ladies, why shouldn’t they put a real roof over their heads? But she says her kinfolk isn’t so sure?”

“How’s that?”

“Well,” Bofur said, drawing himself up as he did before he got on a long story, “Oura reckons as having real queens’n kings’n such’ll drive the rents up. Gryr thinks the opposite. _He_ says they’re poor as anything and they’ll drive the rents down cheap as dirt and all sorts’o unpleasant types’ll follow behind ‘em. Sounds like they got rooms down the hall from his folk, which is how he knowed all about it.”

Víli frowned a little, digesting the information before he gave his judgment, “I says let ‘em settle theirselves. Hasn’t done no one no harm, has they? If they can pay their rent same as anybody, there’s naught to be getting worried over.”

“S’what Lura said to Gryr, sure enough,” Bofur replied. “Only he says he don’t see as how they can make more money if they only serve their own folk who don’t got two pennies to rub together.”

It was decided then that they would have a look-see round the Longbeard forge, just to take stock of the place, to see if they recognized their own neighbors in front of the counter or if it was still being patronized by foreigners. In the interest of putting Oura and Gryr’s minds at rest. Naturally.

The forlorn little smithy certainly looked better than it had done in years. They’d cleaned it out and got to scrubbing. The outer walls were clean as could be, the only thing the wooden countertop wanted was a fresh coat of paint.

There were a few dwarves clustered around, dressed in patched clothing, collecting small orders. Sharpened knives, patched cooking pots, that sort of thing. Not the treasures of Khazad-dûm, but enough to be getting on with if there was a month’s rent that needed paying.

“Still don’t know what all there is to see,” Bombur grumbled. “‘Less you got work for ‘em.”

 _“There’s_ an idea!” Bofur exclaimed, smacking both brother and cousin on the backs. “Vili, go give ‘em some business! You’re kin to ‘em and all!”

“Kin?” Víli spluttered, eyes wide. True, his father was descended from the Longbeards of Khazad-dûm, but that hardly made him a close cousin of these new arrivals! He shied away from the forge, gazing at it out of the corner of his eye, but the short-bearded fellow they’d spied a few weeks back hadn’t noticed them at all. “Oh, aye, near hundred times removed! Why don’t _you_ give ‘em some business, if you want to be sure they make the rent? You’re as good as being kin to ‘em as I am!”

**“You are very far from home, my lads.”**

All three of them jumped, slamming into one another, dropping picks and hammers onto one another’s feet, howling with pain and surprise.

Bifur was standing behind them, steady on his feet though his eyes were tired - and disappointed. Without another word, he gestured for them to follow him back along the path to the center of town and they did so at once, collecting their tools and shuffling along in an embarrassed huddle.

The smell of roasting potatoes, garlic, and onions made their mouths water, but all three of the lads gulped and exchanged nervous glances; they didn’t _think_ they were still of an age where they might be sent to bed without supper, but they were not entirely certain.

Bifur turned toward them at last, folding his arms and looking at them with an expectant expression on his face. Since the war had taken the Common Speech from him and he still occasionally struggled with the Old Tongue, they had learned to read his thoughts in his face. At the moment his thoughts appeared to roughly consist of, _What was all that about, then?_

Bofur, scuffing his toe into the floor, mumbled, “Just wanted to have a look-see, find out how they was settling in.”

 _You ask?_ Bifur signed. _With mouth or hands?_

The three exchanged glances and shook their heads as one. No, they hadn’t _asked_ anything, they thought just staring at them for a bit would give them the measure of it. Made sense at the time, but now it seemed flimsy as gossamer silk. Bifur’s disappointed sigh confirmed their private suspicions.

 **“Leave them be,”** he said at last, gesturing to the table for them all to sit themselves down as he got supper prepared. **“Treat them as neighbors, or, if you cannot, let them alone.”**

Simple words, deserving of heeding. Oura and Gryr weren’t the only two who objected to the settling of Clan Longbeard in their hills. It was an issue that divided the range clear in half - those who were indifferent or those who were opposed.

There wasn’t a dwarf in the Blue Mountains who hadn’t lost someone - a kinsman, a neighbor, a friend - to the Orcs and Wargs of Dimrill Dale. It was painful enough to lose a loved one, made infinitely moreso by the fact that they couldn’t give them a proper burial, laying them to rest in the stone they’d been born and bred to. Bifur’s father Bilfur, Víli’s father Fíli and elder brother Kíli all were lost. Víli’s Ma, Varla, hadn’t survived a five year without them and it had been touch and go whether or not Bifur himself would make it.

It was why Bombur had gone into the mines without being legally of age for a full day’s hard labor. It was why Vili had given up his goldsmithing apprenticeship. He said it was no matter to him, he wasn’t a deft hand at smithwork and would much rather be with his cousins anyway, but it had been a life path altered because of Longbeard wars. Everyone’s lives had changed. And many were bitter about it, still felt the sharp pain of those fresh wounds every day when they woke up and found something or someone missing.

No one raised an eyebrow when Víli pulled up a chair and sat down to supper with them. They knew without him saying so that he hated going home every night to his family’s empty flat, eating alone would make it all a hundred times worse. They never said anything about it, just as they never said anything when Bifur occasionally confused his words or suffered debilitating headaches that left him mute and confined to bed for days on end.

Not that they ate in silence, of course not. Theirs was a family of raconteurs, jokers, tellers of tall tales...well, _gossips_ , to put it less obscurely. They couldn’t bear silence for long, none of them. Not even Bifur who listened to their stories of the workday with a smile on his face, only interrupting to question them about details he hadn’t caught once or twice. No further comments were made about the Longbeards. Or about their dead.

It was easier that way, to talk and talk about nothing in particular, letting their loss fill the silences.

Bifur was right, Víli reflected hours later when he made his way home through the pitch dark streets. Daft of them, really, to stand aside, not talking, not even to ‘Hallo’ them or offer the day’s greetings. Rude.

“What’d you all say, eh?” Víli asked quietly, fitting his key into the lock of an empty suite of rooms. He shivered when he walked inside; they’d gone icy-cold without the heat of a fire and bodies to warm them. He snorted in a self-deprecating manner, “Aye, I made a poor showing at that.”

The house his cousins shared was Bifur’s own, he’d taken Bombur and Bofur in after the Orc attack that killed their parents, Víli’s Auntie Catla and Uncle Balur. Uncle Bilfur and Auntie Ragna let them stay with them, they had room for two boys that Vili’s own parents hadn’t, though he knew his Ma wanted to take them something awful.

She and Auntie Cat had been close as close could be. Sisters born with four years between them, folk around called them the twins. Bonny lasses both they’d been, Mam with her shiny golden hair and Auntie with her lovely copper locks, hardly ever saw one without the other, even after they were grown up and married with wee ones. When Víli was a child, he remembered a house - his or his cousins’ it hadn’t mattered, he’d been reared in both homes equally, it seemed - filled with warmth, laughter, love.

His Ma took it hard when Auntie died. She carried on, for his sake and Kíli’s and their Da’s, but she was never quite the same. Never laughed so loud anymore and sometimes, he caught her turning her head when she spoke, as if listening for someone who wasn’t there anymore.

He didn’t blame her for not hanging on after Da and Kíli died at Moria. She’d lost so many already. It hurt her heart, just as it did his, to come home to empty rooms every day. To see her sister’s home sold to another family. She stopped going to work and a dwarf who could find no pleasure in their trade was a dwarf who wasn’t long for this world. That’s what everyone said, anyway. And after watching his mother’s vibrant hair fade to the color of old straw, watching the light burn right out of her eyes, and watching her fat and hale hands go bone-thin from grief, Víli well believed them.

It was just...they looked so _ordinary._ Those fine, noble dwarves whose descent from Father Durin could be traced like a groove in a well-trod path. Couldn’t tell kings from queens from paupers among them. It made Víli and Bofur curious, that was all. They’d wanted to get closer, see if there was anything about them that marked them out as being special. They’d never got near enough royalty before to know what set them apart from the common stock. It never even occurred to him that he might speak to them, as Bifur suggested.

“Probably gave ‘em a fright,” Víli muttered as he got into bed, ignoring the chill of neglected sheets in a dark room, deliberately turning away from the unoccupied bed in the corner. “Skulking around and all. Must’ve thought we was fixing on robbing the place! Bifur had the right of it. Nearly always does…”

He fell into a doze, his mind peacefully blank, thoughts as empty as the house he slept in. When he woke the next morning, he decided he wouldn’t give another thought to Clan Longbeard, not without proper cause. No matter how curious he got.

It was sheer dumb luck that the cause fell into his lap - or rather, clattered down at his feet when the head of his mattock cracked clear off at work. ‘Dumb’ being the operative word - the Broadbeam smithy Víli usually patronized did not ordinarily strain his pocketbook to the breaking point, but a few rounds of dice gone wrong meant that the repairs needed would be too pricey for what coins remained to his name before payday.

Obviously he couldn’t work without tools. But he couldn’t afford the repairs and he didn’t want to be indebted to his cousins for something that was his own fault.

There was only one solution. So he made a point of rising early, brushing his hair and beard into a more thoughtful arrangement than was his wont, and hied off in the early morning light to the newly established, reasonably priced, Longbeard smithy.

* * *

 

All told, they hadn’t very many things to move so Dís had no idea why they couldn’t drag everything up the hill in one go and have done. Yet somehow, despite the next month’s rent being settled up at their new lodgings, they had yet to pass the night there. Dís had hardly even seen the place, only once, right after the rent agreement was finalized. Ama was there now, trying to make it ‘liveable,’ as she put it. Dís did not know why it would take so very much time, given that they’d been sleeping out of doors for weeks now.

There was a lot she didn’t know, she reflected glumly, staring down the roadway as she waited for the fire in the forge to heat up.

She _did_ know why the villagers could be bothered to give them the time of day. No one told her so, but she knew. They were angry at them, even though they’d never met them. Angry at Grandfather, really, but because Grandfather was gone they had to be angry at Thorin in his stead. He was the heir, after all and the heir inherited all a kingdom’s wealth and all of its sorrows. As they hadn’t any wealth anymore, Thorin’s legacy was sorrow.

They must have been angry at her too, she thought, tracing the grooves in the wood with her fingernail, peeling old paint, feeling it chip off against her skin. She was of the royal family of Erebor, even if she was too young to take part in the fighting when the war drums sounded. Frerin had been too young, but he fought anyway. Would they have been angry at Frerin, she wondered?

No one told her, but she knew. Everyone around her had been angry for years and years. Angry or sad. She knew what both of those emotions felt like, she could sense them even, without looking. Narrow eyes. Pursed lips. Hunched shoulders.

Thorin and Dwalin were drawn together, muttering to each other as if she couldn’t hear though the smithy wasn’t hardly big enough for their voices not to carry. Complaining about the room rates. Worrying about difficulty paying. Worrying about being sent away.

Dís supposed she should worry right along with them; it would show the proper family spirit, anyway, but no matter how she dwelled on money and lodgings and business, she couldn’t get too fussed about it. They were always moving, always leaving, or being pushed out. Why should this place be any different?

She _wanted_ to settle. She wanted this place to be different - if different meant better, which she certainly hoped it did. If settling would make everyone happier, would make them feel something other than sorrow or anger, she wanted that more than anything. But if they moved on, she would survive it; she always had.

A glint of gold bobbing on the horizon caught her eye and she leaned over the stall, squinting in the mist. The gold turned out to be the bonny beard of a dwarrow lad coming down the street, whistling a tune the caught her ear the moment after his face caught her eye.

She tried not to look too closely; she didn’t recognize him, clearly he wasn’t coming for them - only he was because he kept his course and waved at her, cheerfully calling, “Good morrow!”

Dís hesitated a second, just to be sure he was really hailing _her_ before she smiled back, a touch stiffly and said, “Good morrow, what can I do for you?”

Her smile might have been just this side of idiotic. The fine beard was attached to an even finer face. The lad had dark brown eyes which crinkled up when he smiled, wide cheeks, and a long, thick nose that curved under just the tiniest bit. He was a bit shorter than she was, but he had strong arms and broad shoulders over a compact, stout frame. Awfully handsome she thought, his attractiveness not at all diminished when he spoke and a pleasant Broadbeam lilt colored every word, even if his words didn’t exactly make sense.

“Good morrow,” he beamed brightly at her.

“You’ve said that already,” Dís reminded him and he blanched, just a bit before grinning again.

“Have I? Well, can’t be said enough, then. Promises to be a fine day!” he looked up and squinted at the weak sunlight peeping over the mountain. “Won’t see most of it down the mines, but it’s good to know it’s shining down all the same. Been treated to some weather of late, you bring it with you across the world, lass?”

Dís couldn’t help grinning back, his jolly manner was infectious. She leaned down upon the countertop, rocking forward on her toes to get a bit closer to him. “Might have done,” she replied. “Luck’s on our side, we’ve been sleeping out for doors for going on two months now.”

The lad tutted sympathetically, “Can’t imagine - well, that’s not true, I _can_ , come to that. Me cousin and I got locked right out one night. Tarried too long at the pub, were made to pass a night under the stars. T’was reckoned a bit o’elf-living’d knock some sense into us.”

“Did it?”

“Oh aye,” he nodded earnestly. “Now we ‘member to have our keys on us.”

Dís laughed and the lad laughed back, a hearty sound that made his shoulders quake and the slight outer curve of his belly shake. From the back of the shop, she heard Thorin clear his throat and mutter, “Dís,” in a very particular tone, the sort that implied she was doing too much talking and not enough working. She was just about to drag the conversation back to business when the young fellow inquired, “You’re called Dís, then?”

“Aye,” she confirmed. “Well, Sigdís if you want to be proper about it, but Dís to nearly everyone.”

“Ah,” he nodded. “Well, as I’m surely part o’nearly everyone, that’s what I’ll be calling you, if you don’t mind - I’m called Víli. Just Víli, no more, no less.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she smiled at him, brightly and sincerely. Let Thorin be grumpy in the background, she was not going to be rude to the first local dwarf who showed them a bit of friendliness. The fact that he had a face the Maker himself must have especially designed to please her didn’t hurt either.

“You as well,” he grinned back, bobbing his head a little. Then, looking at something just over her shoulder, gave another cheery wave and added, “You as well!”

If either Dwalin or Thorin were just a touch shorter, they would have been quite literally breathing down her neck. As it was, Dwalin was so close by her that he was practically pushing her ribs into the countertop and she could feel the heat from Thorin’s breath at the back of her scalp. Dís turned and leveled blinding smiles up at the pair of them who were wearing the sort of grimaces dwarves reserved for the battlefield.

“That’s Dwalin, he’s my cousin...three times over? Twice over? Either way, he’s my cousin and this is Thorin, my ol-elder brother,” Dís gestured to each in turn, then turned and winked at Víli. “They’re a little shy.”

“No matter, I chatter enough for twelve dwarves,” Víli replied quite naturally, as if he wasn’t being glared daggers at by two renowned warriors. “S’what me Ma always said anyhow and she were a _wise_ ‘dam - mercy me, is that the sun?”

It was indeed the sun. Dís was getting burned from both sides, the bright yellow orb was shining brightly in her eyes and she could tell without turning back that the forge was hot enough that they could get to work.

“I’ll be late,” Víli informed her, a touch apologetically. “No matter! You aim to stay, eh? Hope to see more of you about the place - t’was a real pleasure meeting you, lass, a real pleasure. Good luck with your lodgings - oh! And thanks for the fine weather, keep at it, won’t you?”

“I’ll do my best!” Dís called after him. Víli waved at them again, walking backward until he stumbled in a divot in the road and turned himself away to watch where he was walking. No sooner had he turned around than someone cuffed her lightly on the back of the head - Thorin. Dwalin knew she was hardy enough to take a stronger blow.

“You’re not minding the shopfront again until you learn to be less chatty,” Thorin rebuked her mildly.

“Me?” Dís asked, eyes wide and innocent. “At least I don’t pout at everyone who comes by.”

Thorin frowned (taking great care that his lower lip didn’t stick out) and folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t pout.”

“Sure you do.”

“I don’t.”

“Dwalin?”

He shrugged and squinted over at Thorin appraisingly. “You do a bit,” he said finally, prompting Thorin to throw his hands in the air and march as far away as he could, disgusted with them all.

At least, that was the air he was trying to project. Dís watched him closely and saw that the tension had gone out of his face a bit and his shoulders seemed less rigid. That was good. He’d been looking awfully glum since Ama looked around the rooms he’d got for them. She hadn’t said anything, just sighed. Dís didn’t say anything either, though she wanted to, she wanted to tell him how nice she thought everything looked, but she thought that would only upset her mother.

They _were_ a lovely set of rooms, even if they were aboveground. Only just, the window in the bedroom she and Thorin were to share was right at groundlevel. Ama muttered something about prowlers and burglars, so they decided without actually saying anything that she should get the second, smaller bedroom that hadn’t any windows at all. It hadn’t made her happy, but at least she’d stopped glaring quite so much.

The kitchen was serviceable and led to a sizeable sitting room. There was a cupboard off the kitchen that could serve as a pantry and they only had neighbors above, below, and on the left-hand side of the house. Dís couldn’t imagine what fault her mother found with it, save for the fact that it wasn’t Erebor. But then, nothing was.

“What are we going to do with the carts?” Dís asked later when she was pounding out nails and shaping horseshoes.

Thorin hesitated a moment, “If...if everything goes alright over the next few weeks, I was thinking they could be used to make furnishings. Once the draft animals are sold off. Those that can be sold.”

Dwalin snorted, “Your cousin Vigg’ll have a time selling that pony of his.”

“No he won’t,” Dís said confidently. “Not if he gets Hervor to do the selling, she’s pretty enough that the buyer’ll be looking at her and not the pony.”

“I’d not let Hervor sell anything,” Thorin said firmly. “You’re hewn too much from the same rock - the pair of you get to talking and you’ll light on everything from the weather to the news from the marketplace without ever touching on an asking price.” He nodded toward the deserted shopfront as if the morning’s conversation proved his point.

Dís huffed, “He mightn’t have want to know the price of anything, he might have just wanted to be friendly.”

Dwalin shook his head, “The mattock he was carrying had a crack you could fit your thumb into right along the handle, I spotted that right off.”

“Why didn’t _you_ tell him the cost of mending it, then?” Dís asked, looking between her cousin and brother expectantly.

Thorin and Dwalin exchanged a look between themselves and shrugged as one. “Couldn’t get a word in edgewise,” Thorin said at last.

“You said it yourself, lass,” Dwalin added with a mischievous grin. “We’re _shy.”_

He laughed when Dís kicked him in the shin, even Thorin managed a smile. They finished the few orders that they had to work on and acquired a handful more by the end of the day. All simple, all from their own kith and kin. By day’s end, Víli remained the only dwarf of the Blue Mountains who had come calling and despite his pleasing manner, his visit hadn’t put an ounce of copper in their coffers. Still, Dís didn’t consider the morning wasted. Even if they hadn’t gained business, she hoped she might’ve found a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a bad start for our future lovebirds, eh?


	3. Chapter 3

Despite Thorin’s dire predictions Víli did come back, just as they were closing shop, bearing his mattock in hand and wearing a slightly chagrined smile.

“Right, I _knew_ there was a reason I stopped by and it weren’t just to wish you good tidings,” he said laying the tool down on the countertop. “Any hope?”

Thorin picked it up, eying the handle critically. “I can have ready for you by tomorrow. You work during the daylight hours?”

Víli grinned and nodded his head vigorously up and down, “Aye, I surely do, but if you can’t get it done by dawn, it’s nothing to fret over. Me cousin used to work down the mines, I can borrow off him in the meantime, take as long as you need.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Thorin’s eyes grew dark and his jaw clenched. “It’s not a difficult job,” he said shortly. “You’ll have your mattock back by dawn.”

“Wonderful!” Víli exclaimed joyfully. “Weren’t sure if you was full-up with orders, hardly fair, eh? Me coming by at day’s end. Would’ve dropped it off sooner, but I clear forgot! Imagine that, eh? Sun-addled, must’ve been, to forget a thing like that - ”

“How were you planning on paying?” Thorin interrupted him. “We don’t take credit.”

“‘Course not, course not,” Víli replied agreeably. “Not when you’ve just set up shop and all. Payment on receipt, I’ll come by on the morrow, same as I did today - long as that lassie back there promises me some sunshine to walk in.”

Dís looked up from her work and smiled as Víli winked at her. “I’ll try,” she promised, squinting out at the cloudles sky overhead. “I like my chances too.”

“Can’t ask for no more nor trying,” Víli said. Inclining his head at Thorin he took his leave, whistling as he made his way back into town.

“I don’t like him,” Thorin said when Víli was out of earshot. “‘If you can’t get it done by dawn...’”

“You don’t have to like him, he just has to pay us,” Dwalin reminded Thorin, pausing before he doused the fire. “You working late or coming in early?”

“Working late, so leave it,” Thorin replied. He’d have to remove the old handle and fashion a new one. Not hard work or complex work, but it would take a few hours. The prospect of a late night relieved him, somewhat. At least if he was toiling away at the forge, it would be fewer idle hours spent in their new lodgings, surrounded by his mother’s disappointed sighs.

“He was just trying to be accommodating,” Dís muttered, packing her tools away neatly.

“He was insulting our abilities,” Thorin frowned. “As if I was a fifth-year apprentice still shying away every time the bellows were worked - ”

“He was sorry he’d left the job so late,” his sister sighed, flinging her arms out dramatically. “Not _everyone’s_ got it out for us, you know. That girl and her father at the bakery were kind - ”

“They did not know who we were,” Thorin snapped, rounding on his sister with blazing eyes. “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”

His tone was waspish and his shoulders hunched. It was a good thing he was reworking the mattock’s handle for he was sure if he looked down, he’d see the imprint of his fingers in the metal. His strangling grip only eased when he saw the hurt flash in his sister’s eyes. For one horrified moment, Thorin thought he saw a glimmer of tears in her eyes, but she blinked and it was gone.

“Fine,” she said tightly, gathering her things and slinging the leather satchel that held them over her shoulder. “I’m done for the day, I’m going to the rooms.”

“Do you remember the way?” Thorin called after her as she beat a hasty retreat out the side door. It wasn’t what he wanted to say. He wanted to apologize to her, tell Dís he was sorry for snapping, sorry for being terse, but the words wouldn’t come.

“I’ll find it,” she said, not looking back.

“I’ll go after her,” Dwalin muttered in Thorin’s ear. “‘Less you need me here - ”

“No, no,” Thorin waved him off, frustrated. “Just go.”

Dwalin lingered for a beat, but did as he said. Thorin was grateful he was gone, he wasn’t fit company at the moment. All he craved was solitude. It had been a long, tedious day of mundane work. Guilty work, his grandfather called it. Taking pennies from their own people. Nevermind that the sort of work they did brought their people no honor.

They had been great weaponsmiths, once. Thorin’s fingers still knew how to craft blades of exquisite power and beauty, his mind still teemed with knowledge handed down by the great Masters of old. And here he was, reworking a handle for a common miner.

 _All work honors our Maker,_ he tried to console himself with the old, trite turns of phrase, meant to comfort younglings whose skills did not match their ambitions. He found the words were worn thin now, having heard them so much over the long years of their exile. Here they were, settled, and they were still scraping by, shoeing horses and patching cooking pots to buy their bread and meat.

A tentative knock on the countertop broke Thorin’s wretched reverie. He did not turn around as he said, “Closed for the day, come back tomorrow.”

“Won’t keep ‘til then, I’m afraid,” a nervous voice he couldn’t place piped up. When Thorin turned, he found the pink-cheeked bakery lass standing in the shade of the awning, holding a wrapped bundle in her hands. Thyra, he was sure she was called Thyra.

The girl wet her lips before she went on, “Er...Da wanted me to give you this...sir. Sausage bread. You was off so fast the other day, you didn’t get a chance to try it. Says we does half our business in sausage bread and it’s only fitting that you and yours have a bite to - ”

“I haven’t money to pay you,” he cut her off, trying to ignore the smell wafting under his nose. Must’ve been still hot in her hands, fresh out of the oven. But their funds were meager after paying the rent and he couldn’t afford between-meal luxuries, no matter how much his mouth watered over them.

“That’s alright, I’m not asking you to,” she said and it was a moment before the words sank in enough for Thorin to understand what she was saying. It must have taken a long time because Thyra clarified, nervously, “It...it’s a gift.”

If Dís had been there, she would have taken it, no questions asked, just a gracious smile and heartfelt thanks. His mother would have coldly informed the girl that it was useless trying to curry favor from the royal family when they had no boons to grant. But Thorin was neither of them and he had no idea how to respond, how he was supposed to respond.

Dwarves did not give gifts, not to others who they did not know. It was not the nature of their race to be thoughtlessly generous to give without expecting something in return. Friends might give gifts, family members would be generous with one another or a courting couple would exchange trinkets, but that was all. Thorin was not friendly with this girl or her family. So the question was, what did they expect of them.

“Why?” he asked. His voice was dull, his tone cool and his eyes full of suspicion.

“Well, truth be told, Da hopes you’ll like it enough to come and order some of your own doing,” Thyra replied with a small smile. “We hasn’t seen you since you come round the first time, if you didn’t like the pasties, you might like - ”

“We haven’t had coin enough to come back,” Thorin replied honestly. The pasties were more than good, they gobbled up all nine of them quick as blinking among the three of them. But they had jerky and cram enough to keep their bodies moving, to indulge in anything more than that would be a waste of money they could not afford.

“Oh,” Thyra said. She looked down at the bread and then over at Thorin, visibly steeling herself. He assumed it was to rescind the offer, but she only held the bread out for him to take. “Well, it was meant for you. And when you’ve got your feet under you a bit, we hope you’ll find your way back to our door.”

Thorin paused, weighing the matter in his mind. It smelled delicious. And it would be nice to offer his mother something that wasn’t dried meat or drier bread.

“You said you have a stopped up chimney?” he asked.

“Oh, don’t be worrying about that - ”

“Have you or haven’t you?”

Thyra shifted a little uncomfortably and admitted that they still did. “Got a wee bit forgetful ‘bout calling the sweeps, is all.”

“My sister’ll be by in the morning, then,” Thorin replied, snatching the bread away from her at last. “Or else I will.”

Thyra looked from her empty hands to Thorin’s as if she wasn’t sure how the loaf had gotten away from her. From the tiny frown creasing her round face, he was sure she was contemplating taking it back - but then, her task had been to deliver that bread to the royal family of Erebor and it was completed, just not in the manner she first expected.

“Alright,” she said finally, folding her arms over her chest. “We light the fires roundabout three o’clock, though, so it’ll have to be afore then.”

“Fine,” Thorin said. Then, belatedly added, “Thank you.”

“Thank _you,”_ Thyra bobbed her head, then shook it. “Fat lot o’trouble for a loaf o’bread.”

“Me and mine aren’t Made for cookery,” Thorin said with a small grimace. Unexpectedly, the girl laughed.

“Well, we’ll expect to see you lots, when you’ve settled in proper,” she said with a firm nod. “Have a good evening, sir.”

“You as well, miss,” Thorin replied, briskly nodding toward her. Thyra set off down the street, still shaking her head a little ruefully. Thorin looked down at the bread in his hands and frowned at it. Though she’d left as cordially as she’d come, he couldn’t help feeling that he’d done something wrong. Granted, he nearly always felt as if he was doing something wrong, so that was nothing out of the ordinary.

It had been right, hadn’t it, to insist on repaying the gift of the bread in some way? Even if the cost of engaging a chimney sweep was generally more than the ha’penny that would be spent on the food, no one gave things away for free. Not to them.

* * *

 

Dís had been running away from the smithy, but Dwalin had longer legs than her and grabbed her round the waist and up off the ground as if she didn’t weigh more than a sack of flour. He got an elbow in the eye for his troubles.

“Put me down!” she wriggled against his arms and then went limp, hoping he’d drop her dead weight, but Dwalin was stronger than five of their kind, at least, and just flung her up and over his shoulder.

“Nah,” he said easily. “Don’t think I will.”

“Are you taking me back so Thorin can walk me home?” she asked and Dwalin could hear the frown in her words even if he couldn’t see her face.

“Nah,” he repeated. “Can’t a fellow want to pass the time with his favorite little cousin without an inquisition?”

“I’m your _only - ”_ Dís began and stopped. “I’m not your only little cousin. What about Glóin?”

Dwalin snorted, “Lassie, the day I go ‘round telling folk that Glóin’s my favorite cousin’s the day you can cut my head open and use it for a drinking vessel for I won’t have any brains left for it to be of us for much else.”

“Nonsense,” Dís scoffed. “We’ll keep you in one piece and use you as a battering ram. Will you put me down now?”

“If you’d like,” Dwalin said, tipping her over his back so that she fell on the ground, a sprawling, frowning bundle of limbs and hair. “Are you finished with your strop?”

“I wasn’t stroppy,” Dís sat up with a huff. “Thorin’s being - and now, there’s a thought! I thought Thorin was your favorite. He’s not much littler than you, but he counts.”

“Usually,” Dwalin agreed, sitting down beside her on the grass beside the road. “Right now he’s second favorite as he’s being a...what were you going to say?”

“Never mind,” she replied, eyeing Dwaling suspiciously. Once Thorin was back to being his favorite again, she was sure he’d repeat every rotten thing she ever said about him and then he’d only give her the burnt bits of supper from out of the pot. Well, when they were back to eating real supper rather than cram and jerky. Her mouth dried right up just thinking about it.

She wished Dwalin would just go away, but she could see he had no intention of letting her run off on her own - which was precisely what she’d been aiming to do since she ran off on them both. Dís hadn’t wanted to return to their rooms at all because then it would just be her and Ama and Ama was going to be gloomy. Maybe not gloomier than Thorin. Even if most of the Blue Mountain folk thought them ill _that_ lad certainly hadn’t and how were they supposed to go about settling if he was rude to every dwarf that spoke kindly to them?

Dís flopped back onto the grass, closed her eyes and wished for Frerin. He always knew just what to do to cheer Thorin up. A look or a bad joke and the wrinkles would disappear from her eldest brother’s brow, he might even _smile_ and wouldn’t that be something? When was the last time Thorin smiled? She could hardly remember the last time she heard him laugh.

When she opened her eyes, she found Dwalin lying on his stomach next to her. He poked her in the side, right where he knew she was ticklish and she squirmed away with an indignant yelp.

“He was being...ornery,” she said. “And there wasn’t any reason for it! How are we supposed to make friends if he scares them away?”

Dwalin shrugged, rolling on his back, hands behind his head. “I don’t plan on making any friends; I’ve got enough already to suit me.”

“Who?” Dís demanded, sitting up and pulling on his ear, the one that had been gnawed on. “You’ve got me and Thorin.”

Dwalin looked at her and smiled, “Aye, just as I said. Enough to suit me.”

It really was awfully difficult to remain cross with Dwalin when he was being so sweet. Dís folded her arms and stuck her tongue out at him since she couldn’t think of a proper retort to make. She pulled up a blade of grass and tore it apart in her hands, ripping off long thin bits of green and letting them fall back onto the ground.

“Well, he didn’t have to be so… _Thorinish_ about it,” she grumbled. “I do know things.”

Dwalin just looked at her, an amused twist in his mouth that Dís found she didn’t like at all.

“I _do,”_ she declared defensively, sprinkling green detritus into Dwalin’s beard. “I know the other Clans don’t like us and there are folks who don’t want us here and - ”

“And your brother and mine and your Ma have had to talk them into letting us settle despite all that,” Dwalin finished for her. Propping himself up on his elbows, he gave Dís a rather frank look. “Don’t be so hard on your brother. Aye, he’s been a bit of an arse and...I’d say you had the measure of that towheaded fellow better than he did. But he’s had a rough go of it.”

“We all have,” Dís muttered out of the side of her mouth and, mangled right ear or not, Dwalin heard her clear as anything.

“That’s true,” he acknowledged. “And given that your brother’s King Under the Mountain, he’s got his own worries _and_ everyone else’s to think on.”

It was difficult to be angry with Dwalin when he was being sweet. It was equally difficult to be angry with Dwalin when he was _right._ As he was nearly always sweet and nearly always right, at the end of the day, Dwalin was a very difficult dwarf to be angry with.

“How’s it feel?” Dís asked out of the blue.

Dwalin raised an eyebrow at her. “How’s what feel?”

“Being perfect.”

Her tone was just this side of insolent, but Dwalin laughed. “Haven’t the foggiest,” he grinned down at her when he sat up. “You’ll have to ask my brother sometime.”

Rising to his feet, he extended a hand and pulled Dís to hers. Laying a heavy arm around her shoulders, he said, “Come along, we’ll take the long way back.”

“What’s the long way?”

“Whatever way we go; I’m not too sure where you lot have taken lodgings.”

The long way back took quite a long way. Dís wound up getting them a bit turned around, for every time she thought they were on the right street, it was inevitably the wrong one. It was full dark by the time Dwalin managed to find the place for them. Freya had been standing in the window, her golden hair illuminated by candleflame and her face lined with worry.

“Don’t tell me you’ve lost the other one,” she said when Dwalin deposited Dís on the doorstep.

“Thorin stayed after,” Dwalin explained. “We’re to come into a bit of Broadbeam coin because of it.”

“Broadbeam pennies are the same as Longbeard pennies,” she replied sourly. “Are you coming in?”

“No thanks, missus,” he replied, though both he and Freya were well aware of the fact that her words were not spoken in the spirit of invitation. “Wouldn’t be right, making Balin eat alone.”

“Are you _eating_ then?” Freya asked, with false awe. “My, my. Have you sons of Fundin been holding out on the rest of us? I can’t remember the last time I put anything more wholesome than cram in my mouth and that’s not eating, it’s a chewing exercise.”

Dwalin smiled and shrugged and said that ‘eating’ sounds a bit pleasanter to the ear than ‘choking down,’ hence his turn of phrase.

“Well, you’re your mother’s son,” Freya sighed. “Good night, then.”

“‘Night,” he said, pleasantly enough, but when Freya turned her back on him, he signed _Good luck_ furtively to Dís.

She could tell she was going to need every bit of luck she could get when Ama closed the door and looked her over like something that a cat brought up, mangled, from a grainery. “You couldn’t wash?”

“I left in a hurry,” Dís shrugged, twisting her smudged and dirty hands behind her back.

Ama hummed at her, a little irritatedly. “I don’t see why, there isn’t much to hurry toward, is there?”

The little flat looked positively immaculate to Dís’s eyes. The hearth had been swept and cleaned, the windows with real glass panes polished so clearly that Dís could see Dwalin walking by on the way to his own rooms. The walls were whitewashed plaster, bare and scrubbed free of the accumulation of soot that came from regular use of a fireplace. There wasn’t anything to sit on and no table in the area set aside as the kitchen. The bedrooms were only bedrooms in theory, there weren’t any actual _beds_ in them, but that could change. When they dismantled the carts, like Thorin said.

“Were you waiting for us?” Dís asked. “You should come and see the smithy, we’ve cleaned it up and the chimney works now.”

“Later,” Ama said distantly, bustling about to pour her a mug of small beer. It was watery and tasteless, they’d stretched it as far as it could go without resigning themselves to drinking directly from the well and foregoing calling the stuff ‘beer’ at all. “Don’t drink it all in one go, you’ll need that to wash down the - ”

“‘Evening,” Thorin let himself in quietly, taking his boots off at the door when he realized his mother washed the floor. Dís winced when she saw her dusty footprints all over and bent to unlace her boots as well, though the damage was done.

“What have you got there?” Ama asked, seeing the wrapped bundle under her son’s arm before her daughter did. “Thorin! Don’t tell me you’ve gone and spent a day’s wages on some cake or other - ”

“No, no, it’s not...I’ll pay for it. I’ve nearly paid for it,” he reassured her. “The bakers - the ones in the village who we got the pasties off of - ”

“Those had _better_ be the only bakers you’re acquainted with,” Ama interjected testily. “Or didn’t I tell you we can’t _afford_ treats?”

“It was an enticement to come back to their shop, they only want a chimney cleaned for it.”

Thorin had one hand raised before him as if warding off an attacking dog and Dís didn’t wonder. Ama looked positively livid and all over a loaf of bread. She tried to sniff out just what it was without being too obvious about it, but Ama caught her at it anyway.

“Even if we did have a bit to spare, I don’t know that I’d go back,” she sniffed, imperiously. “Sweeping a chimney for a loaf of bread. It’s _insulting._ Treating us like we’re beggars, like all the rest. I suppose I should expect no less from the common stock if their lords and ladies think so meanly of us.”

The hand that Thorin was using to hold off his mother’s ire scrubbed over his face. He looked absolutely done in and Dís felt the last stubborn bits of anger clinging to her heart wash away. “Well, I agreed and I can’t go back on my word,” he said tiredly. “We might as well eat it.”

“And I sent Dwalin away,” Freya muttered, sighing deeply when Thorin sat on the floor beside his sister unwrapping the parcel. “Because our table was no more richly laid than his - you take half of that to Balin and Dwalin, do you hear me?”

“Aren’t you having some?” Dís asked, removing a thick slice from the end of the loaf and holding it up for her mother’s inspection. “There’s sausage in it.”

Freya reached out and took half of the slice Dís had given her. She ate it with a distant, unreadable expression. “It’s cold,” she said and that was all she said as she swept out of the kitchen, into her bedroom and shut the door.

Neither Dís nor Thorin said anything as they divided the rest of their half between themselves. “It’s good,” she whispered. “Even if it’s cold...when’d you get it?”

Thorin rubbed his brow, grease from the bread mixing with the soot on his face, causing it to smear. “The baker’s daughter brought it round the shop. She was going to give it to me for free, but I wouldn’t take it. She said it was a gift...I don’t know why they should give us _gifts.”_ He smiled cynically. “Could be it’s poisoned. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Thyra wouldn’t do that!” Dís declared.

“Wouldn’t she?” Thorin asked, cocking a brow at his sister. “I didn’t know your acquaintance was so long you could speak to her character.”

“She wouldn’t,” his sister maintained. “It’d be bad for business if they poisoned their patrons.”

Thorin laughed then, a sound that was rusty around the edges, like an old door hinge. “Aye, I suppose so. And they’ll be down a chimney sweep. I said I’d go, or you would. It’s your choice, you have an easier time of it than I do.”

“I know,” Dís nodded. “It’s ‘cos I’m shaped like a broomstick - what time? I’ll go, I don’t mind. I like Thyra, I think. Even though I don’t actually know her at all, she was kind that day we met.”

 _Of course she was,_ Thorin thought. _They wanted our business._

But he bit his tongue and ate his supper and kept his mouth shut about it. “You’ll want to go round about midnight,” he said. “I’ll wake you. Don’t worry about the smithy on the morrow, there’s not much work to be done that can’t be done by Dwalin and myself. I’ll go out and bring them the rest of the bread now.”

Dís nodded and stood up, making for her room and the relative comfort of her bedroll. She paused on the threshold, “When Víli comes back to get his mattock, promise you at least _try_ to smile at him.”

Thorin’s lips twitched, “I’ll do my best - but you’re the one who brings the sunshine, so I don’t think I’ll measure up.”

Dís grinned and scurried back to Thorin’s side. He was still sitting on the floor so she bent, kissed his cheek and said, “‘Night, brother. Sweet dreams,” before she left and slept on a real floor, surrounded by real stone walls for the first time in a long time.

Regardless of what their mother might think about their current living conditions, Dís enjoyed the best night of sleep she'd had since the battle that took Frerin away. Even if Thorin spoiled it four hours later, shaking her shoulder in the pitch black and telling her it was time to wake up.


	4. Chapter 4

An old, much-patched, too-small tunic would serve quite nicely for cleaning out chimneys. Dís managed to find one that was doubling as a rag, so she doubted very much her mother would mind that she managed to ruin one of the few items of clothing that she did own. Ama was forever complaining that she was careless with her things, but she did not think the fact that the sleeves of her tunic didn’t reach her wrists anymore could be put down to carelessness.

Her trousers were too short as well, she noted as she stuffed her feet into her boots in the dark, but not too tight round the waist. She had to use an old belt of Frerin’s to keep them up, with an extra notch pierced through it. Frerin had always been skinny as a reed too, but there wasn’t much to be done about it. Cram and jerky were alright for keeping a body moving, but not much for filling a body out.

Most days, Dís’s didn’t mind about her looks one way or the other; after all, who did she have to impress? But when she drew near the bakery in the darkness and her lantern fell on Thyra’s stout, comely form, she managed to feel a little flicker of self-consciousness. Thyra was all bonny curves and roundness beneath her tunic, thick through the waist and ample through the hips. Pretty as a picture too with her round, ruby-red cheeks and whiskers the color of a shiny beryl.

“Good morrow!” the lass cried with a smile before Dís could fall too much into a strop about her own lanky figure. “Or good evening, whichever you’d like.

She held her hand out and Dís thought she meant to shake it, so she was surprised when a piece of bread was pressed into her palm. “Don’t you fight me on it!” she ordered with mock-severity. “I’ll not have you insisting on patching the roof for it, like that brother o’yours. Begging your pardon and all, but by me beard, I never seen someone so keen on overpaying in service!”

Dís couldn’t help smiling a little. Probably traitorous of her, to hear someone criticize her brother and not chastise them for it, but Thorin was ass-stubborn about some things. And anyway, after he tried to frighten Víli off the day before, she thought he could do with a bit of criticism.

“He can be a bit thick,” she smiled. “I’ll just eat and say nothing more about it.”

 _“There’s_ a sensible lass,” Thyra nodded approvingly. She took Dís by the wrist and led her inside. Dís couldn’t help herself, she tensed a little. She was unused to anyone other than her family treating her so familiarly, but it was plain as daylight that Thyra didn’t mean any harm by it. As she was bustled around to the kitchen, she found herself thinking that Hervor would probably like her a great deal, she was forever making free with her affection.

“Right, I covered up all what needs to get covered,” she gestured around to baking trays, racks for cooling and various and sundry kitchen tubs, pots, and tools all covered up in old sheets, in preparation for flying soot. “And don’t you be thinking that a wee roll’s all your payment you got coming to you, me Da wouldn’t hear of it.”

The roll was quite good, even if it, like the sausage bread from earlier, was a bit cold. It was filled with salty ham and cheese and before Dís could request something to quench her thirst, a mug of small ale was presented to her. It was stronger than the watery stuff she’d swallowed down on her family’s sitting room floor and she took her time in drinking.

Did they all live like kings here, in the Blue Mountains? Good food and drink at all hours, everyone in real stone dwellings? Were all the lassies and laddies fat and happy as Víli and Thyra seemed to be?

The questions burned the back of her throat, wet by the food and drink, but she swallowed them back. She didn’t want Thyra thinking she was a pest or worse.

“Are you settling in alright?”

“Hmm?” Dís had been so worried about keeping her peace and not asking questions that she’d failed to realize one was being asked of her.

Thyra smiled and repeated, “Settling in alright? You and yours? Managed to get a few hours o’sleep, I hope, ‘fore you come all this way?”

“Wasn’t too long a walk,” Dís replied. “We’ve got a few room in the artisan’s flats just a few streets over. Three all to ourselves. S’better than tent-sleeping.”

“Oh, I can...nah, I can’t imagine, never passed a night out o’doors in all me life,” Thyra informed her. “That’s not a bad spot, not at all. We live under the shop, in rooms with me Da’s amad and adad and me uncles who hasn’t wed. There’s six of us wee ones - I say, wee ones, but me youngest brother’s fifteen, walking and talking and driving me ma to drink.”

“Six…” Dís looked at the girl in disbelief, sure that she must have misheard. “Your parents have _six_ children? All their own?”

Thyra nodded, looking pleased as punch, “Aye, me Da’s one of four, but me Ma’s one of _seven,_ so it weren’t as odd as all that. It’s just you and your brother, then?”

Dís finished her drink before she nodded, not quite meeting Thyra’s eyes, “Er...just us. Now, I mean.”

She’d said too much. She could tell, from the widening of Thyra’s eyes to the parting of her lips that she’d said too much. Over and over her mother and, at one time, her father, cautioned her against spilling their secrets to strangers.

Sometimes, Dís didn’t see what there was to be so secretive about. Everyone knew of the Longbeards’ great loss in the East. None could forget the devastation at Dimrill Dale. Yet she was instructed to keep her head down and her mouth shut. Not to speak. Not to trust. You never knew who might scorn you. You never knew who might turn on you.

But Thyra did neither of those things. She laid a gentle hand on Dís’s arm and said, quietly, “I’m so sorry...we didn’t - with so many wee ones, Da didn’t go off to fight. Túfi weren’t even ten years old...little more than a babe. And I’m the eldest, wasn’t of age - another brother? Or don’t you like to talk about it?”

Dís did not know whether she liked to talk about it or not, all she knew was that they never did. Sometimes she thought Thorin forgot. He’d turn his head, mouth open, a smirk on his lips, but stop when he saw there was no cheerful little brother to speak to. More than once her mother had spied her doing something she didn’t like, and she would scold her, shouting, “Frerin!” before she could stop herself.

But aside from those little slips, no one talked about him. Not him or Adad. Or Udad. It was like they’d forgotten them, or tried to forget them. Dís didn’t think she could, or, if she was very honest with herself, if she wanted to.

“He was called Frerin,” she said with a shrug. “He wasn’t much older than me, fifteen years or thereabouts. He shouldn’t have been fighting, but he went anyway. There’s not much more to say, really.”

But there was. She could have gone on and on about Frerin, if she thought Thyra wanted to hear it. About how he was the funniest dwarf she’d ever known and even when he was cutting up and driving her father to distraction, Thorin nearly always laughed at him. How everyone loved him and her mother said his smile made the road easier to bear. She had said that once, Dís remembered, Dís would always remember even when her mother had nothing good to say about anyone and didn’t talk about Frerin anymore she’d remember that he’d eased their way.

She could talk about how he loved her and Thorin so much and he never let Thorin get too sad for too long, how he tried to keep her from ever being afraid. It didn’t always work, on both counts, but he never stopped trying. Frerin was daring and tireless and good. And she would remember him even when no one else wanted to.

Thyra smiled a sympathetic smile and squeezed her arm, not in understanding, but not in pity either. “Let me get you another glass of beer, then we can see about that chimney, eh?”

Dís nodded and smiled wanly. “Alright.”

It wasn’t a hard job, just a few years accumulation that needed scrubbing off. Dís’s arms were tired by the end and she’d gotten more soot spewed about the place than she intended to, but the chimney was cleaner than it had been in years and Thyra thanked her profusely as she helped clean up.

“How old are you?” Thyra asked curiously.

“Sixty-six,” Dís replied. No one marked her Name Day the year before, not in presents or special treats. Thorin wished her the blessings of the day and Dwalin picked her up and spun her around until she was laughing and dizzy, claiming the day would come soon when he’d not be able to do such a trick with her, she’d be too big for it.

“Oh!’ Thyra said, eyes wide. “Well, then! I wasn’t too sure, y’see and I didn’t want to make you cross, thinking you was too old or too young.”

“Which way was it?” Dís cocked her head at her curiously.

“I thought you had to be at least seventy-five,” Thyra blushed. “You’re a tall one, that’s for sure! Only you...that’s to say, your - ”

“More beard than sense,” Dís said, tugging at the woefully short strands that framed her face, she didn’t have enough hair on her chin to think of growing it out. “And not much sense.”

Thyra laughed, a high, lilting sound that Dís was happy to join in on.

“Aye, that’s it,” she agreed. “But sixty-six, well, that’s fine, isn’t it! I didn’t have anything worth winding a braid in ‘til I was near seventy.”

“How old are you?” Dís asked, looking her up and down speculatively. “You can’t be much past.”

“I’m not at that,” Thyra winked. “Seventy-five coming up at midsummer.”

“Joyous Name Day - a wee bit early,” Dís congratulated her. “Seventy-five’s the majority in the West, isn’t it?”

“Aye, _finally,”_ Thyra said dreamily. “Won’t be out o’me indenture ‘til I’m eighty, but that’s little matter. Figures I’ll say on with me Da in any case - just ‘tween us, he’s set on me inheriting the lot when the time comes. Got a better head for sums and such than me brothers and Rafi’s ‘prenticed to a cabinetmaker anyway, can’t cook to save himself, poor lad. He’s the next one after me, eight years me junior.”

“Are you doing a sword dance on Durin’s Day Eve?” Dís asked curiously.

Thyra looked at her a little blankly, “Hadn’t planned to - why, your lads and lassies do when they reach their majority?’

“Aye,” she confirmed, deflating a little. The sword dances of Erebor always sounded a treat and she could barely remember them. “The lassies, anyway. It’s a grand thing.”

“You’ll have to tell me all about them sometime,” Thyra said, folding up the last of the filthy sheets and surveying the bakery with a keen eye. “Not bad! Just in time to get the ovens lit and all!”

“What’s all this?” a voice boomed from the doorway. Alfi came forward, shaking his head and waggling his finger in exaggerated disapproval. “I thought you was coming at the midnight hour, miss!”

Dís looked at Thyra in mild panic, but she jumped in front of her, batting her father’s hand away with a grin, “She’s done! Just as good as her brother’s word and cleanly too.”

“Cleanly!” Alfi tugged at the end of his beard and smiled hugely, “Why the place looks better than it done when I left it this afternoon! You Longbeards brung magic with you from the East, me girl?”

Dís smiled too and shrugged her shoulders, “If we had, I surely couldn’t say.”

Alfi patted her on the shoulder with a warm, reassuring hand. “Ah, I understands, we got magic of our own we don’t dare tell, ain’t that so, me darling?”

“‘Tis true,” Thyra winked at Dís. “There’s a spice bread recipe ‘cording to legend, what’s insured for five-hundred gold pieces.”

“Must be some spice bread,” Dís said, whistling through her teeth. “If we’re still here come wintertime, I’ll have to try some.”

“You will,” Thyra nodded firmly. “You absolutely will, I’ll bring some ‘round the forge from the first batch - just so long as your brother don’t take it upon himself to rebuild our ovens for it!”

Alfi laughed, “Never thought I’d find fault with a fellow for being overgenerous, but this is the first I’ve heard of a sweeping job getting done for a few pennies worth o’bread. Now, lassie, what say you and me work out a payment, eh?”

In the end, Alfi paid her 12 shillings and 9 pence, in addition to a sack of the ham and cheese breakfast rolls that Thyra informed him Dís liked very much and really ought to share with her mother and brother.

She thanked them profusely - so profusely that her mother probably would have been ashamed of her, but she was truly grateful. Not just for the money and the food, but the company and the real warm friendliness shown by Thrya and her father. They had received so little of that recently that she would almost rather have the kind words than the money.

“You got to come out with us sometime - got some friends who’re good fun of an evening,” Thyra said as she walked Dís to the door. “Bildr keeps the finest public house the side o’the Misty Mountains. Good beer and decent food, not too dear neither. Next time we go out, I’ll come round your forge and collect you.”

“Alright,” Dís agreed readily. “If I can bring a friend along.”

“The more the merrier!” Thyra insisted. “S’what me family always says - and how me Mam and Da got six of us. Bring whoever you’d like, we’ll have a grand time.”

Thyra pressed her hand warmly and sent Dís off home with a smile and a sincere wish that she have a good rest of the night. The sun was not up yet, the dark still pressed in from all sides, but she hardly felt the cobblestones beneath her feet as she walked the rest of the way home. The water in the cistern outside was cold, but she washed her face and hands without a care before she tip-toed into the apartment, letting herself in to her very own rooms with her very own key for the first time in her memory.

Dís removed the money from her pockets and left her filthy things piled on top of her boots by the door so as not to ruin her mother’s cleaning effort more than she had already that day. The money she placed on the mantel. She left the rolls on the floor for lack of anywhere better to put them, and crawled into her bedroll with aching arms and a happy smile on her lips.

* * *

 

Three hours later, a somewhat overtired Thyra was leaning over the counter, regaling her three favorite miners with the story of how she spent her night cleaning up after Erebor’s princess who’d come to sweep the chimneys.

“I wanted to get the lass a brand new tunic meself, only I don’t think we’d have any as’d fit her, she’s taller than Da!” she whispered, keeping an eye on the door, just in case she needed to rush out to take an order. “But she were such a _sweet_ girl, I don’t know how she and her brother come from the same family, he’s got such a sour way about him.”

“The brother!” Bofur hissed. “Did you see the _cousin?_ Big as a mountain and covered o’er in ink, first time I seen him, I thought he was some Man they got along with ‘em. Don’t hardly look like no proper dwarf.”

Beside his brother, Bombur scoffed quietly, “No Man gets to be that big in the shoulders.” Then, glancing back at the doorway, added, “How’d he fit in without ducking?”

“He couldn’t!” Thyra declared. “Had to fold himself in half and turn sideways to manage it.”

“They don’t seem so bad,” Víli said around a mouthful of flaky pastry and sausage.

“I never said they was _bad,”_ Thyra clarified. “Just as I don’t see how Dís can ‘bide - hang on, what’d you know about it?”

Bombur and Bofur too stared at Víli who stared back. “I said, didn’t I say - Well, I _meant_ to say I asked ‘em to have a go at me mattock what broke two days back.”

“What’s the matter with going to Alvíss?” Bofur frowned, puzzled.

“There’s nothing the matter with Alvíss if you got a heavy purse which I hasn’t at the moment and anyway, you was the one who said I ought to give ‘em business!” Víli said, shoving his cousin hard on the shoulder.

Bofur’s frowned deepened. “Did I?”

“You did,” Bombur nodded. “‘Fore Bifur said we was to leave ‘em be.”

“Bifur said that?” Thyra asked, head jerking about like a curious bird, trying to keep the thread of the conversation from unravelling. “I don’t believe it, I never heard him say - well. I mean, I never knowed him to think ill o’ them Longbeards.”

“He don’t,” Víli assured her quickly. “He didn’t say we was to leave ‘em be just like that, he says we got to be neighborly to ‘em _or_ leave ‘em be. And I was neighborly, giving ‘em a bit o’work and having a talk with the lassie. Like I says, I don’t think they’re bad sorts. Took a few hard knocks and got trouble getting up on their feet again is all.”

“It’s tuppence a minute we charge her for gossip!” Alfi called. “An’ Thyra, them pies are burning, see to it!”

The tell-tale acrid scent of sweetness turned to char wasn’t in the air, but Thyra knew better than to prolong her chatter when her father ordered her back to work.

“Go on, then,” she shooed her friends toward the door. “But I said to Dís ‘fore she gone off that I was inviting her round the pub some night, I think she could use a bit o’diverting. Put a smile on her face.”

“Sounds a treat!” Víli called as he and his cousins headed for the door. To Bofur and Bombur he added, “That lassie’s got a face made for smiling and ‘tis a shame she don’t get much practice at it.”

Bombur looked doubtful, “S’not...is that allowed? Them being royals and all - ”

“Sure it is!” Bofur declared. “And why not? If they’ll fix Víli’s mattock cheaper’n Alvíss, why shouldn’t they come out for a drink?”

 _“All_ of them?” Bombur asked skeptically. “You think the giant wants to drink with us?”

“Not even giants could resist Bildr’s brew,” Víli declared confidently. “We’ll go out next pay day, eh? ‘Less you got something better to do?”

“I don’t,” Bombur replied warily. “But...feels funny, is all. Sharing a pint with them high-born of Durin’s line. What do we got to say to ‘em? What do they got to say to us?”

“Dís is easy to talk to,” Víli said. “Like Thyra was saying, sweet lass. Could be her kinfolk warm on closer acquaintance is all. Aye, her brother was a bit...prickly. But he’s a King, eh? Could be most Kings got to be a bit prickly, s’why their crowns got points on ‘em.”

Bombur very much doubted that was why crowns had points, but he wasn’t going to argue the fact. Víli took the road to the Longbeard forge, so any discussion of pints and kings was going to have to wait until they took their noontime meal and could hear one another speak.

Neither the king nor the princess were working that morning, instead, Víli found himself face to face (well, face to chest, really) with the giant who had Bombur so nervy. He was a big lad, that much was true, Víli was sure he’d never known a dwarf to get so tall, but he looked liked he’d smack the thought right out of your head if any sly folks got round to talking about Mannish blood in his family line.

“Morning!” Víli smiled up at him.

The giant didn’t say a word, just tossed the repaired mattock down on the countertop with a clang.

“Thanks,” he said, smile never wavering. He counted out his money and laid it out on the countertop so the fellow could see every penny, all the while racking his brain to remember what he was called. Dwalin! Dwalin, surely, of course, Dwalin who slayed a thousand orcs at the gates of Moria!

Bombur’s fear and awe wasn’t misplaced. Even before they’d come West, the reputation of this particular Longbeard preceded them. It was said he’d not been born of mortal stock at all, but rose from the hot belly of a volcano. It was said his inner name meant _vengence_ and he was a true-Made son of the Maker of them all, forged to rid the world of the pestilence of Orcs and Goblins and others who would desecrate the land beneath the earth that was their dominion. It was said he took his drink only from the heads of his enemies and ate with their bones.

But Dís said he was only shy. And Víli thought she’d know better than most, wouldn’t she.

Dwalin took the money and made a show of counting it out in one of his big, tattooed hands. He gave a grunt that seemed to have an approving sort of note in it, which Víli took to mean that he was satisfied with the payment. Hefting his mattock over his shoulder, he gave him a wave and said, “You be sure to tell Mister - er...King Thorin he done a fine job, eh? And give Miss - Princess Dís me best!”

Dwalin just looked at him over the end of his broken nose and didn’t say anything.

Bombur got like that sometimes. Only his shadowed eyes looked at the floor and he shuffled his feet when he did so, turned so red he was nearly purple. Well, warriors had to have better discipline, he supposed.

“You have a good day,” Víli said as he headed toward work.

He was almost out of earshot when he heard a rumbling voice mutter, “You too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this one's a little short, but it felt complete, so I stopped there. Rest assured that there will be more shenanigans to come! And more angst! But I really want the kids to all go out and have fun together, so that'll have to happen before we get back to Durin Family Miscommunication. Also, Bifur and Thorin still need to meet.


	5. Chapter 5

“Pub tonight?” Víli asked, leaning against the countertop at Alfi’s bakery. 

Thyra was bustling around, arranging cakes and pies as more and more were sold off in the morning rush. She spared a moment to nod and add, “I’ll ask Miss Dís to come along, if you don’t mind.”

“He surely don’t,” Bofur replied teasingly. “Given he’s in _love_ with the lass.”

Víli just laughed good-naturedly and shook his head, “With her smile, I’ll grant you. T’is a lovely thing and I’m sure the lass don’t hardly get no chance to show it off! Their situation being what it is. I’m sure she could do with a wee bit o’merriment.”

“Settled then!” Thyra chimed in merrily. “We’ll have Miss Dís along and she said she got a friend she might ask to come - ”

“The more the merrier!” Bofur and Víli chorused as one. The cousins look at one another, grinned and laughed as Bombur stood slightly behind them, chuckling and shaking his head. Their mothers used to say that when the Maker was working on the pair of them he was running low on supplies and split one mind between their two heads. 

Mahal had obviously not been running short on materials the day _he_ was made. Bombur was a little more reticent than his brother and cousin and preferred to know just who exactly he was being set up to meet - _if_ he chose to follow them along to the pub.

He had to clear his throat twice before he could make himself speak loudly enough to catch Thyra’s ear, “Ah...that...that friend o’hers…didn’t give a name, did she? Nor a - a title, or somesuch? You don’t suppose they’re a princess too, eh?”

Thyra shrugged, sparing him half a glance as she took an empty tray back to the kitchen for washing, “Could be, I didn’t ask. She just said a friend. Does it matter?”

Bombur thought it did, or ought to. He didn’t know how many members of royalty he could take meeting in one sitting. Looked like it was shaping up to be a quiet evening at home with Bifur for company. Fortunately, his elder cousin was very good company.

Unfortunately, he too wanted to have a night out. When Bombur and Bofur returned home from work and idly informed him of their plans, he stroked his beard contemplatively and asked if there was room at their table for one more.

Bombur looked up, face and beard dripping with water. “You’re sure?” he asked, trying not to sound too eager. Although it meant his plans for a quiet night in would be altered, any sign that Bifur was coming back to his old self was welcome. 

He’d yet to return to work in the mines - Bofur had already been working, but picked up more hours to make up for the slack and Bombur had joined him less than a year after Bifur came home, when he was well enough to be left on his own during the daylight hours. Bofur liked to joke that he started a trend, for Víli had his indenture to Master Vitnir broken when his father and brother failed to come home. There was easier money to come by quicker as a grunt in the mines than was to be made as a goldsmith’s apprentice. 

With all three of them working, they managed to eke out enough of a living to keep a roof over their heads, with a bit of coin flowing back and forth between their households when they had need of it. Bofur had been dropping loud hints of late that Bifur needn’t worry about going back down those dark aul holes at all, anymore. That they were doing quite well enough as they were and it wasn’t as though he’d been Made for it, anyway. Their cousin was an engineer at heart, and an artist; his real skill lay in the manufacture of toys. 

A Bifur who did not rise before the sun to work deep in the earth was not the Bifur who left them five years ago, with their uncle and cousin, to go orc-slaying in Dimrill Dale, but he was still closer than the poor fellow who’d been borne home by his comrades in the back of a wagon, near catatonic, who woke at night, plagued by nightmares of unnamable horrors. 

Now he spoke - only Khuzdul and some days not even that, but it was better than nothing. The rest he signed, when his hands weren’t overcome by spasms and tremors or his head did not ache too fiercely to open his eyes. He could move about under his own power, though he usually did not go into the town proper alone; crowds put him off. 

This, therefore, was a welcome and stunning change. Bildr’s was usually packed, even on slow nights there was often a line five deep to the bar. That Bifur was willing to make a night of it did their hearts good to hear; it proved that even now, he was on the mend. 

Bombur didn’t want to push him; they’d had enough near-disasters to know the folly of that, but if Bifur thought he was ready to go back to the pub again, he was ready.

After a moment’s thoughtful hesitation - Bombur had enough experience with Bifur to know that it _was_ pondering rather than a spell where he’d wandered off in his mind and hadn’t heard him - Bifur nodded, slowly. **“An hour,”** he said confidently, then winked at his young cousin a trace roguishly, just like his old self. **“Or two.”**

“That’s the spirit!” Bofur crowed happily, patting Bifur heartily on the back as he rebraided his plaits from where they’d come undone after his wash. “Oh, wait ‘til Víli sees you, he’ll be chuffed! I’ll bet you could knock him over with a feather sure enough.”

It was not Víli who was in danger of being knocked down, but Bifur himself - when his exuberant young cousin saw him, out and about in the evening twilight, he ran at him and enveloped him in an enthusiastic embrace, kissing his cheek and exclaiming over what a fine time they were sure to have. 

“Now it’s a true party!” Víli grinned hugely, waving them all down the lane with one arm slung roundabout Bifur’s shoulders. “We got a few more to collect afore we’re truly ready to make a night of it.”

 **“Who?”** Bifur asked, one brow raising curiously. 

“New friends - well, I hope so,” Víli said and Bofur hummed his agreement. “We reckoned on taking your advice, coz.”

Bifur looked mystified and turned to Bombur for clarification. The youngest shrugged a little helplessly with a small smile on his face and, as was usual, Bofur spoke for him.

“The new arrivals,” he said, putting his arm around Bifur’s other side. “‘Treat ‘em as neighbors or leave ‘em be,’ you says. ‘What’s the fun in leaving ‘em be?’ And here we are!”

“Víli was the one who gone up to ‘em and spoke and gave ‘em business,” Bombur pointed out a little teasingly. “He was the only one with the guts for it, you and me was cowards about it.”

“Well, that there king fellow’s got a face as’ll crack plaster off a new-laid wall,” Bofur grumbled, for they were approaching the dimly-lit forge and he had no desire to be overheard by the aforementioned acid-faced brother. “And then there’s the _other_ one - ”

“The other one’s Dwalin the Fearsome!” Víli interrupted in the same hushed whisper. He and Bofur both leaned forward, as if conducting a private conversation though they were in front of Bifur’s face. Their cousin gamely craned his neck to see over them, to ensure that none of them walked into anything.

“He’s not!” Bofur squeaked, then amended, “Well, sure, he must be! Has to be five - nah, more like six foot tall! I heard he killed five-thousand o’them orcs in battle!”

“I heard it were ten-thousand,” Víli replied, brow furrowing, trying to remember where he’d heard that figure and whether it was a reliable source.

“I don’t wonder,” Bofur retorted without asking for verification. “Him _and_ their king, I’ll bet all they got to do is give ‘em a sour look and down they go like...like…”

But exactly how sour looks from Thorin Oakenshield or Dwalin the Fearsome felled their enemies was a discussion for another time. A last blech of black smoke went up from the chimney of the forge as the fire was doused for the day. Dís was outside, on her tip-toes, lowering the awning when Víli hailed her. She turned round suddenly, letting the awning slam down in front of the curious faces of her brother and cousin. 

“Evening!” she called, jogging over to them, but she stopped short before she quite reached them, eyes widening when she saw Bifur.

The axe attracted quite a few looks - curiosity and then a sort of reverent respect from dwarves who recognized a veteran of Azanulbizar, disgust and badly-disguised horror from Men who could not stomach the sight. Dís displayed neither reaction; on the contrary, she looked downright enchanted.

“Good evening!” she repeated herself, giving him a respectful bob of the head as she did so, then added, a trifle self-consciously. “Don’t recognize me, I suppose, do you, sir?”

The shock of a princess - aye, a princess wearing a tunic gone threadbare at the elbows and trousers that were dusty at the knees, but a _princess_ calling their cousin ‘sir’ had an effect upon Bofur and Víli that was scene only rarely, like a blue moon or a shooting star; they were speechless.

Bifur was looking at her, with a mixture of thoughtfulness and embarrassment, he raised his hands to sign what appeared to be an apology, but froze when the lass whistled, loudly and clearly. They all recognized the tune, it was a favorite in the West, “The Rising of the Moon.”

“I’d show you the trick with the coin,” Dís added impishly. “If I had any to spare - that’s the part of the magic it took me _ages_ to learn.”

Bifur smiled and broke away from his dumbstruck cousins to lay his hands on the lassie’s shoulders, eyeing her up and down; she was taller than he was and the last time he’d seen her had been at the beginning of the war, nearly fifteen years ago.

 **“Bless my beard!”** he exclaimed, black eyes twinkling cheerfully. **“Young, Dís. I remember. I do remember. How fares your brother?”**

If she was surprised at all to be spoken to in their fathertongue, she gave no indication of it. Her smile turned down a little around the edges and she said, “Not...Frerin...Frerin was burned.”

Bifur’s eyes closed momentarily and behind him, his cousins, lowered their gaze respectfully, each sending up a silent prayer for all the dead of Azanulbizar, their uncle, their cousin, gone and never buried. Víli’s eyes raised and he looked at the lass with a new sort of respect; he knew what it was, after all, to lose a brother to those fires though he had not seen them with his own eyes. He did not know if he was jealous that she had, but the haunted look that came over the lassie’s face made him think that he was lucky to have remained home. In more ways than one. 

**“I am sorry,”** Bifur said quietly.

 **“Thank you,”** Dís replied by rote, having heard the words a hundred, thousand times, never quite used to them, but it was commonplace enough that she knew how to reply. Could pull herself away from the brink of melancholy, even, if she didn’t wallow in her memories too long. “But Thorin’s well - he’s here! In the forge, I’m sure he’d _love_ to see you - and your kin?”

The last she added with a question in her voice, but Bofur and Víli nodded eagerly, coming forward at once for introductions. This was what they were used to, making friends, making small talk. Remembrances to the dead, however beloved, was not their forte.

“This is me cousin Bofur,” Víli said and Bofur swept off his hat, falling into a low, elaborate bow that made her smile. “Bifur’s me cousin too, his Da was brother to our Mas - a blessing on their hands and heads and the stone where they lie - and this _here,”_ he skipped back a few steps and, after a few hard tugs, got Bombur to stumble forward to greet her, “is me little brother, Bombur.”

“At your service, ma’am,” he managed quietly, bowing not nearly as dramatically as his elder brother.

Dís pulled a face, “Very mannerly, I’m sure, but there’s no need to call me _ma’am_ \- I’m not even of age, yet!”

“Ha!” Bofur laughed, patting Bombur on the back, “Nor is he! He’s so used to being the youngest of us, it’s got to the point where you think everyone’s got to be a greybeard next to him.”

Bombur colored red as his hair and shrugged, but Dís smiled at him and he managed a small one in return. Then she turned her attention back to Bifur, patting his hand once before she dropped it and ran back toward the forge.

“I’ll fetch him!” she promised. “Thorin! You’ll never _guess_ who’s outside!”

Once Dís disappeared through the side door, Bofur stomped round to Bifur’s front, hands on his hips, his expression accusatory. 

“What’s that, then?” he gestured wildly behind him at the forge. “Since when’ve you been bosom friends with the Prince and Princess of Erebor, eh? When was you going to tell us?”

Bifur smiled coyly and shrugged, **“I would have given answer, if it was a question you asked.”**

Bofur stared at him a minute, then threw his head back and laughed. “Fair enough. But now I’m asking - how’d you come to know ‘em.”

Bifur shrugged again, mysterious fellow that he was. **“There was a fight,”** he said simply. **“I helped.”**

The explanation satisfied his cousins - barely. It was a truth universally acknowledged that there was no quicker way to bond dwarves than being on the same side of the same brawl, but one quick glance exchanged among Bofur, Víli and Bombur promised that they’d have plenty of questions for their cousin about his illustrious acquaintances when they were settled at home.

Dís had Thorin by the hand and was dragging him out of the forge with all the impatience of someone trying to get a reluctant ox to pull a load. Thorin was practically digging his heels in, for although he’d told his sister that he didn’t object to her getting a drink with Miss Thyra and her friends - as long as Hervor went along with her - he himself had no desire to know them.

“You already know this one,” she insisted, pulling him out into the fading daylight. “It’s Bifur - remember him?”

Thorin raised his eyes and regarded the handsome, black haired dwarf on the road. Remember? Of _course_ he remembered the dwarf who assisted in subduing two very drunk and very quarrelsome Ironfists who thought to pick a fight with his sister and brother in a far-distant mead hall. 

Cowards, he reflected. And since they’d had such cowards at their backs, was it any wonder Azanulbizar had been such a bloodbath?

But not all the foreign dwarves they’d encountered had behaved so abominably. Some were like Bifur. Built of honor from top to toe. Aiding children he did not know for no greater reason than it being the right thing to do.

And their wars, their _Longbeard_ wars, left him with an axe in his head and a paltry pension to his name. No wonder half the Blue Mountains despised them.

But Bifur smiled at him and raised his hand in greeting, not to give a blow. Thorin fought back against his sister’s determined pull at his wrists for a second more before he allowed himself to be led to the miner who had been in the back of his mind for most of the war. 

Thorin eyes went to the axe longer than his sister’s did and his gaze was keener. 

“How fare you?” he asked, seriously, folding his arms across his chest before he could think to offer a hand to him. It was second nature to him to collapse in on himself than to reach out.

 **“Well,”** Bifur replied, not taking either notice of or offense to Thorin’s unwelcoming posture. **“Today I am well and I grieve for your loss.”**

 _Which one?_ Thorin thought uncharitably. The bitter thoughts made his mouth curl downward, but he swallowed the words before he could give voice to them. _Frerin. He’s talking about Frerin._

 **“Thank you,”** he said, having had just as much practice as Dís to know what he must say. 

“Blow knocked the Common Speech right out of his head,” Bofur interjected helpfully. “Just if you was wondering - but we’re not masters of it anyway, eh?”

Thorin’s blood went cold and he raised wary eyes to survey the dwarves he took to be Bofur’s kin. Víli he recognized at once and his teeth ground down against each other as he surveyed him. So, his ‘friendly’ visit was done on pretense, was it? To get a good long look at them in their degraded circumstances, to see what they could demand as wereguild for their kinsman’s suffering at his family’s command.

He must have seen they had nothing. And so had come to enact bloody retribution. It would not be the first time. Thorin seized Dís’s wrist where once she’d taken his and gave her a shove toward the smithy. 

“Clean up,” he said, and it was a command, not a request. Dís heard that in his voice, but she didn’t move, puzzling over why he should be so cross.

Thorin, meanwhile, was thinking that he ought never have left Dwalin sneak away early to help his brother in the cleaning of the rooms they’d taken in town. They were still too newly settled, there were too many dangers and though he was a fine warrior and Dís could hold her own in a fight, they were outnumbered in this and rage over invalid kin could make vengeful dwarves brutal in their execution of justice.

“Can we help?” Víli asked. “Only we’re meant to meet Thyra soon and she’ll get to wondering where we gone - and I thought you was bringing a friend of your own along, lassie?”

“I am,” Dís spoke to Víli, but her eyes were still locked on Thorin. “Hervor. She’ll be by soon, just as soon as her Da lets her get away. Thorin, did I tell you? Ama said Vigg found himself a shop to let as a butcher, he knows the old prayers so well and he says he’s too old to be a sellsword, so - ”

“HALLO!” a voice sounded from down the lane, more like a warcry than a greeting. Everyone turned toward it and when they saw the source, Víli and Bombur’s mouths dropped open as if they expected to catch a few flies. Bofur blinked once, then got a good look at the expressions of his kin and smirked knowingly. 

A vision of flaming scarlet was barreling toward them at top speed. Of middling height, broad of shoulder and red - violently red - of hair, Hervor had a complexion like a pitcher of milk with nutmeg sprinkled on top, a broad upturned nose and a wide, fetching mouth behind a full thick beard. She was the loveliest thing out of the East, everyone said so.

“See?” Dís nudged Thorin playfully in the side and got up on her toes to whisper in his ear. “Told you there was naught to worry over. Once Hervor walks in a place, no one pays me any mind.”

“Am I late?” she asked breathlessly, running to Dís and nearly bowling Thorin over in the process. Without waiting for a reply, she turned round, tossing her springy curls and asked, “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

Dís spared a look at Thorin who seemed less oddly furious than he had been a moment before; now he only looked confused. “This here’s Víli, and these are his cousins...Bofur, Bombur and this _here_ is Mister Bifur. He fought in the wars.”

Without missing a beat, Hervor reached out, took Bifur’s hands and touched them briefly to her forehead, **“Bless your hands, sir. And thank you for your service.”**

Bifur smiled down at the girl and looked over her head, winking at Dís. **“Are all of your friends as charming as this?”**

“Nay,” Dís laughed, shaking her head. “Hervor’s got charm enough for all of us, we’re suffering from a bit of a shortage. Isn’t that so, Thorin?”

Thorin looked very poorly, all of a sudden, so Dís gave him another jab in the side. Discreetly, she thought, but it was enough to snap him out of whatever strange mood he was falling into. 

“Aye,” he nodded curtly, then one side of his mouth lifted in something that passed for a smile. “As you can see.” 

Dís gave him a smile that was bright as a diamond in a coal mine. Thorin was not too proud to realize he’d rather misjudged her new companions. And he was embarrassed enough about his thoughts that he turned away, shooing her along with one hand. 

He hadn’t mentioned Dís’s going away for the evening. Not as such. He was sure that Freya would not take kindly to her daughter settling so well into their new surroundings so soon. So, when she inquired when they would be home for supper, Thorin mentioned something about Dís and Hervor spending the evening together and his mother came to the conclusion that her daughter was supping with Vigg. It was a sign of how little composed she was that she did not insist that her cousin and his daughter come to their home. She was still humiliated by the rooms, regardless of how clean they were or the fact that none of their kin could afford better.

A hand on his arm stalled him in his progress back to the forge. He looked down, expecting to see Dís at his elbow, but it was Bifur. _You stay?_ he signed with his free hand.

“Aye,” Thorin nodded. “My mother...I don’t like to leave her alone. And I’m poor company, in any case.”

Bifur’s smile was indulgent, Thorin would almost call it fatherly, save for the fact that his father never smiled at him like that. **“I am certain that is not so,”** he replied, but let him go and said, **“The next time, you ought to accompany us.”**

Thorin nodded, but did not agree verbally either way. Dís gave him a wave and Hervor blew him a kiss. He stood by passively and watched them go. As they got further and further down the road, the urge to jog after them, to take Bifur up on his offer, grew within him. But he thought of that axe, the cause, his own part in it all. He shivered and went back to the forge to lock up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pub fun in the next chapter! For anyone interested in reading about how Thorin & siblings know Bifur, that's covered in Chapter 5 of my story 'Children of the Lonely Mountain.'


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note about talking birds - I don't tend to write the ravens of Erebor speaking as fluently as _The Hobbit_ has it, I think they're smart birds and can understand what's being said to them, but I don't think they hold conversations, hence Dís's confusion over the idea of birds that can talk.

It was still early evening when the motley little group arrived at the pub. The yeasty smell of brewing beer and fermenting ales made their noses twitch before they walked through the doors. Hervor linked her arm with Dís’s before they went inside, giving her a cheerful wink before they found their eyes adjusting from the ruby-tinted twilight out of doors to the glow of candlelight and oil lamps inside.

It was a warm, well-maintained pub, fairly large with tables, chairs and stools set up neatly around the room. A roaring fire burned in a massive hearth which was carved with snarling boar’s heads around either side of the mantle. Thyra was sitting a little ways away from the fire and she half stood on her chair to wave at them, calling them over.

“Good thing we come early!” she exclaimed when they group was in earshot. “Elsewise we’d have never got sat - oh! Mister Bifur! Aren’t you looking well? And what a sight for sore eyes!”

She rose from her chair and gave Bifur an enthusiastic hug which he returned warmly. **“I have come for a short while,”** he said, sinking into the chair she pulled out for him.

“Good, good!” Thyra nodded encouragingly. “Better that staying in the house, eh? And _you’ve_ come as well, what a lucky night it is! This is your friend then?”

Her eyes fell upon Dís with apparent pleasure and her smiled never dimmed when she saw Hervor at her elbow. Hervor bowed extravagantly, but she never dropped Dís’s arm, “Friend _and_ cousin! Hervor, daughter of Vigg, thanks so much for having me along, I can’t remember the last time I had a night out.”

In fact, they’d never _really_ had a night out, not Dís and Hervor, anyway, not without a parent or an elder brother to accompany them, but it seemed babyish to say so to their new acquaintances.

“We’re glad you’ve come,” Thyra said earnestly. “New faces to spruce the place up, can’t think o’nothing finer!”

Hervor hesitated a fraction of a moment before returning Thyra’s seemingly ever-present smile. Dís had no such qualms and smiled back warmly. In fact, she’d gone along to spy on this new neighbors of theirs as much as she had to have a night out. Seven years of age left Hervor feeling distinctly responsible for Dís’s well-being and (in her very humble opinion), she thought she was rather better at the whole ‘looking after’ thing than Thorin was. At least she opened her mouth and _talked_ to people rather than frightening them off with scowls and snarls.

Dís talked up Miss Thyra quite a bit as she cajoled her into coming along. Said she was a friendly sort of girl who came from a big family that were all very kind. Hervor didn’t doubt that Dís believed her claims, she just wasn’t entirely sure that the bakers and the miners deserved the praise. The poor lass had seen so much of cruelty that she was overgenerous in her estimation of kindness.

But Thyra saved them a table and insisted to pay for the first round of drinks and Hervor’s good opinion of her climbed appreciably. She tugged Dís down beside her onto a bench, then had to budge up to make room for the miners, but once everyone was settled and the beers were set down, the conversation flowed easily around them. Neither of the Eastern girls had much to contribute - their drinking companions spent a great deal of time oohing and ahhing over Bifur’s return from what was evidently a bit of an absence from the tavern. That suited them perfectly well; Dís was happy to be there and Hervor was happy to have a drink.

“What do you do?” Thyra asked Hervor, cocking her head interestedly. “Smithwork?”

“Nah, butchering,” she replied. “Ada says he’s too old and too ornery to make it as a sellsword so he rented out a shop.”

“Your father’s a warrior?”

“Was - well, would be again, if he was called to be,” Hervor clarified, perhaps a bit overeager to emphasize the fact that her father was no coward. He was all she had left of her family, all her pride had to focus itself somewhere. She put her beer back down on the tabletop; she had exactly enough money to get herself and Dís one drink more and two beers were only enough to whet the thirst of a dwarf, she wasn’t about to guzzle herself into an early end to the evening.

Thyra nodded along, her beer nearly empty, “I telled Dís, didn’t I, that me own Da couldn’t go off to fight, not with six little ones in the house and all.”

“The brave service o’one dwarf honors us all!” Bofur piped up, having picked up the word ‘fight’ and extrapolated the substance of the conversation from there. He and Víli knocked their mugs together amid general grunts of agreement.

“You think so?” Hervor asked, cocking her head in an evaluating way. She really wasn’t built for this sort of thing, but a mind got to thinking when a body wasn’t drinking. That was one of her brother’s stupider personal mantras and an excuse for imbibing early and often when he got the chance. He wouldn’t have waited for an invitation from the local dwarves before finding his way to the pub, Hervor was sure. She liked to pretend, but she’d never had his boldness.

“‘Course!” Bofur nodded enthusiastically. “Take Bifur here - me and Bombur was too young to go fighting, so he had to give blows for all three of us!”

 _And receive,_ Bifur sighed with an ironic half smile. Bofur hesitated only a second before he laughed heartily. When a person could joke about a wound, it was a sign it was well scarred-over.

Dís rolled her mug in her stick-like fingers contemplatively, staring into the foamy head of her beer with a peculiar intensity. She didn’t seem to be listening and Hervor gave her a jab with her elbow.

“Want to go?” she asked under her breath, but it seemed Thyra heard her, for her mouth turned down and she looked rather dismayed.

“No,” Dís replied, lifting her head as if the question surprised her. “I’m alright, aren’t you?”

As bad as Thorin was about speaking up when something was troubling him, Hervor privately thought Dís was worse. At least her brother had the courtesy to work himself into a gloomy rage so the whole world knew he was troubled, but Dís acted as if there wasn’t anything wrong, no matter how often Hervor got the sense that she was melancholy.

The trouble was, there were too many things that could be contributing to her upset that Hervor didn’t know where to start guessing. Was she missing her brother, her father, her grandfather? Was she feeling guilty leaving her mother by her lonesome, with only Thorin’s surly silence for company? Was the talk of war making her anxious when so many still bore her family a grudge? Was she only trying to think own long she could keep nursing her beer before she was forced to spend her only pennies on another? Or was it something as simple as a stomachache?

She didn’t know, and when she asked, she only got raised eyebrows and insistence that all was well that Hervor couldn’t believe. She pursed her lips which only made Dís raise her dark brows higher and then she shrugged, thinking that if the lass began to look really poorly, Hervor would feign a stomachache herself and drag her out of there by the hand.

“Fine,” she said with forced levity, giving Thyra a dismissive, reassuring smile. “We don’t go out much - That’s not so, we’re _out_ far too much, but - ”

“You ought to make more of a habit of it,” Víli said with a broad smile and a wink.

That was the one Dís talked up, the handsome one whose mattock Thorin mended. She could certainly see why he’d stuck out so prominently in her friend’s mind, quite apart from his good looks he had a manner so friendly she was sure he could charm the gilt off a guinea. Just the sort of a lad a young, impressionable girl like Dís could lose her head over. Luckily, Hervor was older and wiser and would not fall prey to that nonsense.

Until he started tuning that gittern he’d had slung over his back on the walk over. Few things could catch her interest like a lad with a knack for music - then again, his playing might ruin her opinion of him well and truly, judging by what Bofur said.

The dark-haired miner gave Víli’s shoulder a punch and he chortled, “Go on, then! I thought you said you wanted them lassies to come back, you’ll fright ‘em off for certain if you start singing.”

“I wanted your brother to give us a song,” Víli kicked Bombur’s boots under the table. The effect was extraordinary. The lad abruptly gave a reasonably good imitation of a ripe tomato immediately, his face turning red as his hair. he didn’t say anything in response, but he practically wobbled the whiskers off his cheeks with how hard he shook his head from side to side. “No? Worth a try, I thought.”

“Bombur’s got the voice in the family,” Bofur explained. “Finest voice in the Ered Luin - only he don’t hardly show it off!”

“Makes it a treat when he does,” Thyra replied, saving her warmest smile for Bombur. He smiled back at her and shrugged.

“S’like Bofur said,” he replied softly. “We want the lassies to come back, don’t we?”

“We’ll have to,” Dís said, finding her voice at last and her smile. “If we’ll one day hear the finest voice in the Blue Mountains.”

That made Bombur go red again and silent, but he seemed pleased despite his bashfulness. Hervor decided that she liked him; she had to admire a lad who knew how to keep his mouth shut when it suited him. Honestly, she didn’t _dislike_ any of them, but she did think it was best for her to be a little wary since Dís seemed so taken. She was older, after all. By seven years. She was sure that had to make some difference.

A serving girl, arms laden with empty glasses, tutted as she heard Víli plucking the strings of his gittern. “Don’t play none o’that Mannish nonsense, it sours the ale!”

Víli raised his left hand defensively, laughing. “It’s a ha’penny for requests, ‘less I likes the song, Oura!”

Oura rolled her eyes and shook her head, “That wasn’t no request, it was a plea for mercy! Going on about the sea and suchlike, it ain’t decent, not for no proper dwarf.”

This time it was Bifur who took it upon himself to explain the conversation for Hervor and Dís’s benefit. _Víli and Bofur like sea-music. Sailor songs._

“What’s not proper?” Dís asked, trying to keep her voice down, but Oura kept her ears pricked and one eye on her. “Ironfists go to sea, don’t they?”

“Well, no Ironfists here, eh?” Oura asked, clutching the mugs closer to her chest with a white-knuckled grip. “You folk like them so much, mayhap you ought to have done your settling in the East where you comes from.”

“Oura! Clear them tables, girl, don’t make me tell you twice!”

Bildr, the landlord spoke from behind the bar, holding a barrel of ale as big around as he was - no small measure. He had a salt-and-pepper beard and glared at his employee out of his one good eye. The other was missing, the flesh sucken and sagging over the scarred socket.

“I can clear and talk,” she retorted hotly.

“Right, that’s twice then,” Bildr balanced the barrel against the countertop. “You think you’d be kinder to me what pays your salary, lassie, takes a bit coming up them stairs, and I got to tell you over and over to get to work when I’d only have to tell you _once_ that I’ve got a mind to break your contract - ”

“Aye, sir,” she replied at once, lowering her eyes and stomping off to the kitchens with her load of dirty dishes, confining her glares to the floor.

There was a moment’s embarrassed silence, which Víli broke with song. For Oura’s benefit, it seemed, he launched into a rollicking chantey:

_“Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest_  
 _Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!_  
 _Drink and the devil had done for the rest!_  
 _Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!_

_The mate was fixed by the bosun’s pike_  
 _The bosun brained with a marlinspike_  
 _And the cookey’s throat was marked beliked_  
 _It had been gripped by fingers tin_  
 _And there they lay, all good dead men!_  
 _Like break o’day in a boozing ken_  
 _Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!”_

It was rather a gruesome song, all things considered, detailing the deaths of fifteen smugglers over a small fortune of stolen gold, but Víli sang it so cheerfully and the tune was made merrier still by the piping accompaniment of Bofur’s flute that much of the tavern joined in on the ‘yo-ho-ho’ bit. It seemed no matter how down Blue Mountains dwarves might be on sailing, no one could object to a song that referenced rum in the refrain.

Despite Bofur’s teasing words about Víli’s musical prowess, he turned out to have a very fine voice. Not as deep as some, but strong and sure and very pleasing to the ear. Dís and Hervor applauded when he was done and both Víli and Bofur sprang to their feet, bowing deeply and lapping up the attention.

“Where’d you come by such a song?” Hervor asked, charmed despite herself. “Done much traveling in your day?”

“Not more nor twenty miles North, East, South, or West o’here,” he admitted, but he didn’t seem overly embarrassed about it. “Get some travelers come true and Bofur and I made a ruddy nuisance of ourselves in the market for years and years when we was too young to be of use to anyone, didn’t we?”

“That we did,” Bofur sighed, eyes shining with nostalgic remembrances. “Don’t know if any o’them what we talked to ever saw the sea either, but the songs’re good, eh? Bought that one off an aul Man with a wooden leg for a penny.”

“Had to be a pirate,” Víli added confidently. “They all got wooden legs in the songs...which leads me to wondering, don’t they get mouldy? In the damp, I mean, s’got to be damp on a sailing ship, they’re built all o’wood.”

“Well they couldn’t have ‘em fashioned o’iron or steel or such,” Bofur countered. “They’d rust, wouldn’t they? And wood’s light for ambling about belowdecks - ”

“If someone doesn’t stop ‘em they’ll go on for hours,” Bombur confided quietly to Dís, surveying his kinsmen with a look that was as fond as it was exasperated. “The fellow they got the song off of don’t always have a wooden leg, you know. Sometimes he’s got an eyepatch. Or a parrot.”

“What’s a parrot?” Dís asked. She hadn’t understood most of the song

“A parrot’s a fine specimen o’flying creature what speaks like a Man,” Víli informed her. “Colored real pretty too, like jewels.”

“Birds talking like Men?” Dís asked, brow furrowed. She glanced at Hervor to see if her friend could tell whether or not she was being made a mockery of, but the other lass seemed just as confused as she. “You’re having me on, there’s no such thing.”

“Sure there are!” Víli insisted. “I mean...can’t say as I’ve heard it meself, but just ‘cos I ain’t seen it don’t mean it’s not so.”

“I suppose…” Dís said doubtfully, but Víli just smiled at her and she couldn’t help smiling back and she didn’t care whether or not he was having a private laugh at her expense.

She wanted so _badly_ to find some friends, she was willing to forgive nearly anything. Still, her eyes sought out Hervor’s face almost compulsively; she was so unused to being out and about without her brother or her mother by her side that her fair cousin was rapidly becoming a substitute for them. But Hervor was smiling too, a stark contrast to Thorin who smiled but rarely and her mother who Dís was concerned had forgotten how to smile.

This lot, though, they smiled. They smiled and laughed and joked as if noise wasn’t going to call marauders in from the dark to slit their throats when the caravan was most vulnerable. They did not sip their beer as if every drop was precious and they ate their meat with the assurity that there’d be more to have on the morrow when they were done. Simple things, but delightful in their rarity. The ease with which her present company held themselves was even more exotic to Dís than Víli and Bofur’s songs of murder for treasure and jeweled, talking birds.

She and Hervor only had money enough for one more beer apiece and one mince pie to share between the two of them. It was still early yet when they made their excuses to return home.

“Oh, don’t go!” Bofur exclaimed, sitting straight up in his chair. “Night’s just got started!”

The barmaid, Oura, who Dís hadn’t seen since Bildr called her back to the kitchen, came by with a rag to start clearing off tables, starting at the one nearest them. She kept her eyes down on her work, scrubbing so hard it looked like she wanted to bore right through the wood.

Thyra threw a disgruntled glance at her over her shoulder before leaning toward Dís and Hervor to whisper, “S’not on her account, is it? I’m sure Bildr gave her a good talking-to ‘bout how to treat paying customers - ”

“No, no,” Dís shook her head, eyes flickering toward Oura before she thought better of it and kept her attention on Thyra. She was determined not to cause a lick of trouble, if she did, they might not be permitted to stay and she didn’t know what she’d do if their people were sent to wandering again on her account. “I just...I don’t want to leave my mother for long, she worries.”

“My father too,” Hervor said, catching hold of Dís’s elbow and pulling her away from the table. Bildr might have wanted them treated cordially when they had money to spend, but there was no telling how his mood might sour when he realized they were sitting and sitting and not buying anything. “He’s...er. Well. We had a lovely time, didn’t we, Dís?”

“We did, _I_ did, thanks so much for asking us along” she said sincerely, with such naked gratitude that Thyra got up and embraced her.

“Happy to have you,” she said, pulling back and looking up at the younger girl with an encouraging smile. “And you’re welcome to come with us any time! In fact, I insist!”

“Me too!” Bofur and Víli chorused as one and Bombur nodded his agreement with a small smile.

 **“You are very pleasant company,”** Bifur agreed, then stood up from the table himself. **“I believe I will follow your example - ”**

Their companions sent up a great shout of protests over _that_ remark and in the ensuing debate over whether or not Bifur should leave, Dís and Hervor managed to sneak out.

“What’d you think?” Dís asked the moment her boots hit the road. “About them, I mean.”

Hervor was thoughtfully silent for a second, then she wrapped an arm around Dís’s waist, pinning her to her side. “They seem like good sorts. _Very_ friendly. I wasn’t sure whether they were trying to get something out of us - ”

“I don’t think so, we haven’t got anything to give,” Dís interrupted. “And they _seem_ so kind!”

“That they do,” Hervor agreed. “You’ve got good taste in friends - of course you do! I’m one of them, which instantly raises the value of the lot.”

Dís grinned at her and lay her arm around Hervor’s shoulders, “You’re alright - ouch!”

“I’m what?” Hervor asked pleasantly, removing her arm from its place about Dís’s middle and making a menacing pinching motion with her fingers.

Dís kissed the top of her head, “You’re the best, sweetest, and prettiest lass I’ve ever known.”

“And cleverest?”

“Let’s not go too far - ouch!”

Hervor insisted on walking Dís home, though the journey was out of her way. She gave her a squeeze before she left, with the admission that she did have a good time and wouldn’t mind going back again.

Dís was still grinning when she crept quietly into the flat. They hadn’t stayed long, but she’d enjoyed herself immensely while she was there, even Oura’s blatant disapproval hadn’t done much to dim her spirits. The flat was nearly empty when she poked her head into the sitting room. Thorin was there alone, cleaning his pipe since he wasn’t able to smoke it. They hadn’t the funds for anything to pack it with.

He looked up and put a finger to his lips to urge her to be quiet. _Ama sleeps,_ he signed.

Dís nodded and sat on the floor beside him. On impulse she wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder. Thorin tilted his head to the side until it rested against hers.

“Did you have a good time?” he asked in a whispered rumble.

Dís nodded. “They were kind. And funny. You should come next time.”

Thorin made a noise that wasn’t exactly an affirmation, but it didn’t sound quite like a dismissal either. “I said you supped with Hervor and only that. Keep that in mind when Ama asks about your evening. If she asks.”

Hesitating only a moment, Dís nodded, giving her brother a tight squeeze, “Thanks.”

Neither of them were in the habit of lying to their mother, but given what a terrible state of mind she’d been in since they arrived, both Thorin and Dís thought that some things were best kept to themselves. Maybe, she thought optimistically, when they’d been there longer, Ama wouldn’t mind the idea of her daughter making new friends as much.

“It’s good for you,” Thorin said when Dís got up to make her way to the bedroom. “To go out.”

“I think you’d like them,” she whispered back, standing on the threshold. “It could be good for you.”

But Thorin kept his eyes on his task and gave no sign that he’d heard her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song "Fifteen Men on a Dead Man's Chest" was technically adapted by Robert Louis Stevenson from a poem by Young E. Allison and is not a "real" sea chanty, but I think that adds some fun to the debate over whether the person the lads heard it from was an actual sailor or not.


	7. Chapter 7

The Mannish home was built all of wood, with lath and plaster walls and a shingled roof. It had no proper cellar and rose three entire stories aboveground. It hardly looked as if it belonged at all, crammed in as it was between two short, stout lodgings of stone and mortar. Lodgings that were far too dear for a family of impoverished weavers.

The rent for this entire house was almost half of what was being asked for the surroundings flats, for the very simple reason that no dwarf in his right mind would take up in a spindly house of wood.

“Well,” Irpa said briskly, ushering her sons inside and out of the rain that poured from the sky in sheets. “This is nice.”

It wasn’t. Dori scarcely felt they were better protected against the wet and wind inside than they were out. The roof wasn’t leaking, true, but fat droplets pounded against the windows and the gales of wind threatened to blow the house right off its foundations. At least, he was sure it would. Oh, no, this was hardly suitable it wouldn’t do that all.

He was about to say so to his mother, but she was shaking her cloak out in the doorway as if she meant to stay.

Clearly she’d gone absolutely mad and this proved it. Dread coiled in his stomach and he started to go very pale. He’d have to find money to have her put away somewhere. Then the burden of raising Nori would fall squarely on his shoulders. Was there an asylum in the Blue Mountains? Were their folk permitted to use it?

“It’s not nice, it’s awful,” Nori said, nose wrinkling in disgust. “It’s made of _wood.”_

“The weavers always worked in wood-paneled rooms,” she said carelessly. “Helped keep the air just a touch damp, it kept the thread supple.”

Dori remembered that (barely, mind, he’d not reached Journeyman status before the Mountain fell), but they were wood-paneled rooms in a Mountain made of _stone._ Oh, but this was terrible.

“It’s far too big,” he pointed out, taking in the high ceilings, waving his arms to indicate the above floors that three dwarves simply did not _need._ “Can you imagine the cost of fuel?”

“If we don’t burn the place down,” Nori said, eyeing the stone heart with distrust. Dori could hardly blame him; what if sparks should fall upon the floor or a sudden gust blow flame in the house proper? Why, the whole thing would fall around their shoulders, surely.

“We’ll just have to be careful,” Irpa said, smoothing Nori’s braids. “I know that isn’t a word you’re much acquainted with, darling, but you’re a bright lad, you can learn. As for cost, I’ve taken that all in hand. We can take in lodgers.”

What a shame it was. What a _shame._ Dori’s mother was still fairly young, still so vital. What a shame for her to have lost her mind so thoroughly just when they were getting the chance to settle down.

“Lodgers,” Dori repeated, slowly, carefully. Just in case he’d misheard. It was entirely possible that she’d said...well, he wasn’t sure what she might have said that rhymed with ‘lodgers’ that made sense, but surely she hadn’t suggested opening their home to _strangers._ Not after they’d spent the last thirty years sleeping with hundreds of their neighbors in quarters that were entirely too close for his taste. Not that Dori was complaining. Not that he _ever_ complained. Well. Not too much.

“Lodgers,” Irpa nodded, cheerfully. “One of our own, I expect. If employment is lost or returns are poor, but I’d not turn away Broadbeam or Firebeard coin, if it came to it.

“But Ama - ” Dori began, but Nori interrupted him.

“That’s not FAIR!” he shouted, stomping his foot for emphasis. “This is _our_ big, ugly house, isn’t it? I don’t want to share!”

Nori, either due to youth or temperament, lacked finesse when expressing his displeasure. It was something Dori often scolded him about, but now he found he was grateful for his younger brother’s forthright nature. Because it wasn’t _fair._

“Now, now,” Irpa said mildly. “Let’s not start in complaining about something that hasn’t happened yet. We’ll need to get settled first, before we advertize.”

His mother was a direct descendant of Father Durin, closely connected to the royal line. Perhaps that explained it. Hopefully, the influence of his merchant father would lessen Dori’s own susceptibility towards this unfortunate mental malady.

“Ama,” Dori said again, trying to delicacy. “We must...you cannot simply...there must be..”

Irpa cocked her head at her son, patiently waiting for him to finish one of the sentences he had begun.

“It’s impractical,” he said at last.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Irpa replied breezily. “I think it’s very practical. As you’ve said, we have a great deal of space and not much to fill it with. Why not get someone to contribute to our expenses by letting out a room or two that we won’t be using anyway?”

Dori was sure that there were several very good arguments to be made that might refute that point; unfortunately, he couldn’t think of a single one at the moment. It was likely all the stress and uncertainty that led up to their acquiring habitation. Half the camp had been on pins and needles, fearing they’d be sent right back out into the wilderness again. After Azanulbizar, he hadn’t liked Thorin’s odds either.

Dori left his mother to console Nori who was stamping both feet and declaring that he would _not_ be sharing a room with his mother, Dori, or a lodger, and that if she thought she could _make_ him, she was sorely mistaken and he would most assuredly run away.

Dori shook his head as he walked up the narrow, rickety staircase, stairs creaking with every step. Foolish boy; what was there to run away _to?_

Being settled, acquiring a little stability, that was all Dori wanted out of life and was it _really_ so much to ask?

Dori certainly didn’t think so, but he also did not have a great deal of confidence that he could expect his paltry little wish to be granted; not when it was Thorin Oakenshield doing the asking.

Let it be known that Dori had nothing against Thorin, personally. He was a fine smith. An excellent warrior and battlefield captain. However, one dwarf could not be endowed with every virtue and if there was one area in which Thorin was decidedly lacking it was in _communication._

Somewhere along the way, between lessons in the schoolroom, sparing in the chambers of combat and forging in the smithy, no one thought it prudent to inform Thorin that a grunt and a nod was not an effective, _Good morning._

Once, many, _many_ years ago, his mother convinced him to feel sympathy for the young prince for being so terribly shy. While Irpa still might occasionally cluck her tongue and shake her head and make soft remarks about, _Poor Thorin,_ Dori had to refrain from rolling his eyes. He wasn’t a little dwarfling, forever hiding behind Dwalin, he was a dwarf grown and a King and, frankly, if he couldn’t manage a little congeniality for the sake of his people, that was his own stubborn fault.

In and out of the village they had gone, Thorin, Freya, Balin and the others and Dori watched them with anxious eyes. The negotiations seemed like they would last through summer and he wasn’t holding his breath for their conclusion; honestly, the only one in _that_ party who had any real amiability was Balin and he was up against some pretty steep odds. Dori didn’t like their chances one bit.

When it came out that they were allowed to stay indefinitely, he had almost let himself relax. Almost. And it was a good job he hadn’t done since his mother was clearly going mad and they’d all be murdered in their beds by whatever cutthroat scoundrels she found to rent their rooms. It was no use arguing with her, he knew; Ama always went her own way. Once he’d admired that quality. Now he just wanted the chance for a cozy rest by a fire he didn’t have to share with twenty other families in an armchair of his very own.

The prospect of acquiring an armchair, at least, seemed to be promising. The carts were broken down and the wood that could be saved was reassembled into furnishings, or, in Dori and Irpa’s case, a larger handloom than the admittedly feeble frames they were forced to use on the road in addition to their small spinning wheel. They were still forced to make rough handspun, but Dori did have to admit that his mother had been right in her preference for a wood-framed house; it did keep the uppermost storey damp enough for their purposes.

A little over a month after acquiring the house, Dori hadn’t heard a word from his mother about her lodgers idea. He half-hoped she had forgotten it, whenever she spoke about the house, it was dreamy imaginings of the furnishings she would like to buy and where she would like them to be placed when they had the time and the money.

Two months into their residence, when he was finally furnished of a bedframe, Dori had nearly forgotten that mad notion himself. Until one fateful evening when there was a knock at the door and a filthy miner stood on the threshold, bearing a grubby paper clipping in his hand.

“Evenin’. This Missus Ert’a’s place?”

“No,” Dori said immediately, shutting the door in the lad’s face. It just might have been possible that he was attempting to speak his mother’s common name, but Dori decided that he was not. And that would have been the end of it, if Dori’s mother hadn’t been Made with unnaturally good hearing

“Dori! Who’s that?”

Good hearing and sharp vision, no sooner had Ama rounded the corner from the kitchen than she caught sight of the miner’s face (to his credit, he had _attempted_ to clean the day’s accumulation of grit from face and hands, though it was a poor attempt). Nevertheless, it could not be denied that under the film of dirt and grease, he was a handsome lad and it was clear that Ama noticed it straight off for she smiled at him broadly and put just a bit more sway into her walk than it normally possessed.

The miner didn’t wait for Dori to reply, he shoved his finely Made nose between the door and the wall and said, “I heard there was a room wanted renting, thought I’d make inquiries. But if this ain’t the house, I’m sorry to - ”

“It is, it is!” Irpa nodded, nudging Dori away from the door that she might open it. “Good evening, stopping in on your way from work?”

The miner nodded, smiling a little abashedly. “Thought I’d stop in ‘fore I got beat out - t’was down the rock I heard of it, I’m no reader, but I tore the paper it come from and all.”

He thrust the little scrap of newsprint into the house and Irpa delicately took up an untarnished corner with her thumb and forefinger. She hardly glanced at it before she gestured the lad inside; Dori groaned inwardly. Honestly, his mother was so _discerning_ when it came to matters of craft, but put a good-looking fellow in front of her and she acted like a dwarfling of seventy all over again.

“What are you called?” she asked as the miner lay his mattock beside the door. Dori noted that it had been patched recently and he felt his heart lighten a bit; surely a fellow who couldn’t afford new tools couldn’t afford the month’s rent.

“Víli,” he said promptly, with a little bow. “At your service.”

“Oh, I’d rather hoped we’d be at yours,” Irpa winked, giving him a little bob of her head. “As you know, I’m called Irpa and this is my eldest lad, Dori. My youngest, Nori, is lurking about by the stairwell.”

There was a thump on the stairs and a scurrying sound of one retreating upstairs; Nori had a fondness for sneaking, though he lacked a real talent for it.

Irpa’s smile remained serene. “I’d offer you a cup of tea, but I’m afraid we’re out at the moment.”

“Oh, I don’t want to put you to no trouble,” Víli said hastily. “Needs a quick scrub ‘fore I sits down anywheres, I just come about the room - rooms? Sorry, I forgot just what it was.”

“Rooms,” Irpa nodded. “A bedroom and a workroom, though of course you’ll have use of the kitchen fire - but I don’t cook meals, I don’t intend to keep a boarding house.”

“‘Course, ‘course, I eats with me cousins most nights anyhow, so that won’t be no trouble,” Víli said. “Got me own furnishings and all - and some I’d sell you on the cheap, if you was of a mind to take them.”

Dori, who stood by in stony silence all the while, suddenly felt his eyebrows jump up. Well, the fellow was shrewd, if not entirely impertinent; he’d noticed their lack of cabinetry straight away.

“Where are you living now?” Dori asked, a little coolly. _Someone_ had to keep their head in this family.

Víli turned to him and glanced behind him, as if his lodgings were just over his shoulder. “Me parents’ home - well, it _was_ theirs, but they’ve gone to stone. S’too much on me own and I hasn’t got the right way about me to be a landlord. I’d swallow any old excuse some sneaky bastard’d use to keep from paying rent. Erm. Begging your pardon.”

Irpa was not one to be put off by a bit of saucy language and she only waved his words off with a chuckle and a wink, “I’m afraid I’m not half so kindly disposed toward wild stories. So. You’ve regular employment - what say we waive the first month’s rent in exchange for your furnishings?”

“Oh, sure!” Víli exclaimed, then flushed at his own enthusiasm. “Er. Once I seen the rooms. I don’t bother much about the chairs and such. They isn’t so fine, nor so old that I got a real attachment to ‘em.”

Dori made a grab for his mother’s arm to stop her - the whole point of _being_ a landlord was to collect rent! And for all they knew the miner’s possessions amounted to nothing more than an overturned packing crate and a three-legged stool. First month’s rent, indeed!

“I’d need a wee bit o’help moving it all,” Víli said, scratching his chin under his beard. “I got me cousins, they’d help - ”

“Oh, my sons would be glad to lend a hand,” Irpa said, taking one of Víli’s stout arms and never minding about the mess.

Dori trailed behind her like a forlorn dog, much-abused. There were a thousand things he wanted to say, but the words piled up on top of themselves in his mind and got stuck in his throat. This was going terribly. They were going to be robbed blind.

Lost in thoughts as his mother showed Víli into the spare rooms behind the kitchen, he didn’t notice that he was being assaulted from above until it was too late.

Nori was small for his age, but he was getting bigger and Dori could not bear his assaults upon his person as painlessly as once he had. Which was why, when his younger brother launched himself off the staircase and landed upon his back, Dori let out a yelp and nearly went toppling toward the floor.

“Why didn’t you _stop_ her?” Nori demanded, arms in a stranglehold around his neck. “I thought you were going to stop her!”

“I can hardly do that if you insist on playing the role of shackle,” Dori replied testily, unwinding his brother’s arms.

Nori let out an unimpressed snort, “You weren’t hardly doing better before I turned up! You just followed her around with your mouth open! You didn’t _do_ anything!”

“And what would you like me to do?” Dori asked, his tone more waspish than he intended.

“Toss him out on his backside!” Nori said, pointing dramatically to the door. “He sounds stupid, I’ll bet he doesn’t have any furnishings or any money or anything. I bet he’s just come in to see if we’ve got anything worth stealing and that just proves he’s stupid ‘cos he’s got dirty hands and he’ll leave smudges all over and then we’ll know who he is when we turn him in to the city guard!”

Dori massaged the bridge of his nose, counting backwards silently from ten. Nori’s explosion of outrage was actually rather good for him; hearing his misgivings coming from his little brother’s mouth made him realize that they sounded rather silly.

“I’m sure Ama can make a good assessment of his character,” Dori said finally. “And he probably won’t like the rooms - ”

“Big, eh!” Víli’s voice boomed through the plaster. “Aye, y’know, I don’t think me bedroom at home is half so big as this and I used to...ah, never mind about that, if you’ll have me, I’ll take it!”

“Oh, I’ll have you,” Irpa spoke and her tone was so _very_ saucy that Dori’s neck flushed pink and even Nori groaned and rolled his eyes. Then he stomped on Dori’s foot.

“This is all _your_ doing!” he exclaimed furiously before he ran back up the stairs to hide.

Dori was left with a throbbing big toe and a question: _How_ had this become his life?

* * *

 

Víli was feeling very good about his life when he left Mistress Irpa’s home. Granted, her eldest son was quiet and the youngest seemed awfully shy, but he hoped they’d warm up given time. He was only grateful to have found a place that was actually inhabited at long last.

Five years mightn’t seem so much to most dwarves, but they had their kith and kin to pass the time with. Not that Víli was lonely - not mostly, not when he was with his cousins, but he couldn’t live with them it would be too much of an imposition.

Before Bifur had come back from the wars, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it, bunking with Bofur, starting breakfast with Bombur, but Bifur needed a wee bit of looking after sometimes. He needed his space, a room of his own to shut out the noise and light. Víli absolutely thrived on noise and light and the cold stones and empty rooms of his family’s flat were becoming unbearable.

He wasn’t being callous when he informed Missus Irpa that his family’s furnishings meant nothing to them, that the flat itself meant nothing to him. That wasn’t where he and Kíli had grown up, wasn’t where his grandparents and ten-times great grandparents hung their picks of an evening. That place had burned beyond repair during that awful winter when a huge band of Orcs came down from the East, when Auntie Catla and Uncle Balur and his grandparents had died, penned in and trapped by the marauders. They’d moved, his family, into a new place with new chairs and tables.

It was too big, even back then. Ma had so wanted to take on Bofur and Bombur. She and Auntie Cat had been close as sisters could be, but Uncle Bilfur took them on. Auntie Ragna was gone too and the lads and Bifur were all he had left; Varla still had her husband and her sons. But they’d rented the flat thinking there’d be two more to fill the rooms and over the years the place just got emptier and emptier until the quiet felt like a living thing, come up to strangle Víli the second he walked through the door.

The place was giving him waking nightmares and when a pile of stone got into your head like that, it was time to sell it off; at least that was his way of thinking.

He’d kept an ear pricked the past few months for tales of anything that had come up for rent, but with the refugees from Erebor come to stay, the landlords had been raising their fees right and left and he couldn’t very well give good hard-earned coin to nefarious sorts who’d take the last pennies out of the hands of the needy. It wasn’t right.

It was the talk of the dining hall that there was an old Mannish house with rooms to let, taken up (so they said) by one of the new arrivals. Responses were mixed, some thought she had no business selling rooms that she’d only come into a few short weeks ago. Others wouldn’t live in rooms of wood if you paid them, so they didn’t much mind either way. Still more said that they’d think about it since the price was right, cheap even, but they couldn’t quite see their way to providing for the landlady’s stipulation that they bring their own bed and other ‘personal furniture.’

To Víli it sounded like a dream and after giving his face and hands a quick scrub he’d run down to the house quick as blinking.

He still couldn’t quite believe it had all gone off so well, or that the landlady was so charming and friendly. Must’ve been something in that Eastern water; Misses Dís, Hervor, and now Mistress Irpa were some of the loveliest ‘dams he’d seen in all his days, never mind their pleasing manners and fine conversation. He’d be happy just to sit a while and get a good look at them a few hours a day. He was sure it would do wonders for his constitution.

It was at supper with his cousins when something less than wonderful happened.

They’d been enjoying a pot of baked beans and bacon when Víli made the very casual announcement that he was taking lodgings a wee ways away from the aul stone he’d called home all these years.

Bombur raised his eyebrows, Bifur nodded and signed _How much?_ (ever practical was their Bifur), but Bofur choked on his spoon and spluttered, “What? No! Why? Rent too high! Come live here! We’ve room!”

“You haven’t,” Víli replied, glancing about. There one great room where the kitchen fire still cackled cheerfully, Bifur’s bedroom and the little room that Bombur and Bofur were crammed in together. Víli suspected it was meant to be a workroom, but it long ago ceased to serve that purpose. “You ought to see the place, though, big as you like - ”

“I don’t care to see it, I don’t care for you to go away from us!” Bofur was adamant, he’d abandoned his supper entirely, letting the roll of bread he’d been sopping it up with fall on the floor.

“I’m not going away,” Víli shook his head. “No farther than I am now anyways - just in the other direction. I’ll be closer to work and all! You can come in of a night when we’re out late and slow ‘bout waking mornings!”

“I don’t care to,” Bofur said, shaking his head. Then he glared at his brother and his cousin. “And you two! Sitting there silent as you please!”

“I don’t see as it’s something that wants getting all excited over,” Bombur said, glancing at Bifur and Víli in a silent plea for someone to _please_ calm Bofur down. “Víli’s just going down the way a bit, so?”

“Aye, you got the right of it,” Víli agreed, eyeing Bofur slightly oddly. “I’m not really _going_ nowheres. It’s too big a house for me and you don’t want it.”

He’d offered. When Mam had gone to stone, the day of the funeral, he asked if his cousins mightn’t like to have the place for their own. More room and they’d all be together.

But Bifur wasn’t well enough to be getting out of his bed much. And it’d disturb him to wake in a strange place. Best if they just stayed home.

Víli understood, he hadn’t bourne them any grudge for not taking him up on his offer. And so he couldn’t fathom why Bofur ought to show such upset now.

He reached out to snag his cousin’s sleeve, but Bofur got up and made his way to the door, jamming his hat back on his head at the last minute.

“Going for a walk,” he said, then, before Víli could ask, added, “By meself.”

Víli stared at the door long after Bofur closed it, a heaviness sinking in his heart, dark and cold, like the silence of his house.

Bombur reached out and patted his arm, “He’s just in a queer mood. He’ll come round. I’m happy for you - can’t be nice, can it? No one to come home to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dammit 'Ri family, stop spreading your dysfunction to the 'Urs.


	8. Chapter 8

There was a rhythm to their days in the Blue Mountains. Birds chirped with the coming dawn outside their windows. Thorin and Dís dragged themselves out of bed, fumbling around for their work clothes, cobbling something together for breakfast, softly knocking on their mother’s door to tell her they’d be gone for the day. They usually met Dwalin halfway to the smithy and the three of them usually ambled along in silence - none of them were at their best in the morning. They worked until noontime, took some nourishment (usually purchased from Alfi’s bakery), worked until the sun was hanging low in the sky, then joined their mother for a silent dinner and early bedding down.

But sometimes there were changes in pace. Every once in a while Dís would be invited to the pub (she always waited to be invited, Thorin advised her never to assume she had a standing invitation anywhere) and she and Hervor would go out while Thorin supped alone with their mother. Despite the fact that he had been invited to come along several times, he always demurred. Dwalin had been hinting that _he_ wouldn’t mind a trip to the pub, just as a matter of interest, but Thorin hadn’t budged.

All the hopes that Dís harbored about settling were slowly but surely coming true. They had chairs in their flat, at last. Soon they wouldn’t be rolling out pallets on the floor to sleep, but they would have beds, as others did. Thorin stubbornly insisted that he was just fine as he was and let everyone else have furniture before he would lay his head down on a proper pillow so their bedroom was still bare as could be. It was novel for Dís to have a place to lay her head nights that was unquestionably _hers_. Not a tent on the roadside, not a borrowed bunk in the Iron Hills, but her own house with her own family, a place to leave during the day that she knew would still be there at night. It mightn’t be much for some, but Dís found it wonderfully comforting. And there were other things, slowly becoming fixtures in their new life that she equally enjoyed.

No sooner had Dwalin got the fire started and Thorin the awning lifted than their ears were assailed by chirruping far deeper and louder than could be managed by even the most determined Western screech owls.

“Good morrow, Miss Sunshine!” Víli hailed Dís jogging up to the stall. He bobbed his head at Thorin and Dwalin adding, “and good morrow to you both, Mister Oakenshield, Mister...the Fearsome. How fare you all this fine day?”

“Well!” Dís smiled brightly before Thorin or Dwalin could volunteer any thoughts about how ‘fine’ the day was - honestly, it looked like rain. “And yourself, Master Miner?”

 _“Excellent_ well, ta’ very much,” he said, leaning with both arms against the countertop; evidently he intended to stay a bit. Many was the morning Víli stopped by on his way to work, burning a few minutes’ time before he had to go off. “Got a business question for you.”

“Do you?” Thorin asked, tying his apron over his clothes. “That’s a first.”

“Refreshing, eh?” Víli asked rhetorically, his cheer not dimmed in the slightest; on the contrary, he seemed even more buoyant than usual, liable to float away on his own good mood. “‘Member some time back, you done me a good turn and fixed me mattock up so’s the head weren’t in danger o’wobbling off?”

“I do,” Thorin said, folding his arms. It was hard to tell, present company being so unused to seeing the expression, but there might have been the hint of a _smile_ lurking around Thorin’s mouth. That thought buoyed Víli even further, but he attempted to rein in his glee - he didn’t want to frighten the smile off, after all.

“How much would it set me back if I were to ask for a new one altogether?”

“More than it did to have the old one patched,” Dwalin interjected, smirking openly - his smiles were harder to chase away than Thorin’s.

“To be sure,” Víli nodded. “But how _much_ more, I’m asking.”

Thorin quoted him a price and Víli smacked his hand on the countertop, hooting in triumph, “You got yourself a commission then - paid in full upon receipt, and all.”

“Have you had a run of good luck at the card table?” Dís asked curiously. It wasn’t long after they’d first become acquainted that she found out Víli specifically sought to do business with them because he hadn’t much money in his coffers; she’d suspected that anyway since the tool was so old it would have done him better to replace it than to repair it.

“Funny you should ask,” Víli said, trailing off thoughtfully before he shook his head. “Er. No, as matter o’fact, not of late, but! I am to save up a bit o’coin just as soon as I pack up move house.”

“You’re leaving?” Dís asked. Thorin looked at her sharply; in his opinion, her tone was _far_ too partial, but he couldn’t bring himself to order her out. She looked crestfallen and that look jostled Víli out of his jovial mood.

“Oh, no! No, no, lass, not as such,” he reached across the counter to pat her arm reassuringly and Thorin didn’t try to stop him. “Nah, just ‘cross town! Not even so far as that! I’m taking a room with some o’your own people, in fact, Irpa’s the name of the landlady and she’s got two sons Dori an’ - ”

“Nori?” Dwalin asked incredulously. “You’re taking rooms with Dori and Nori? Have you met them? Don’t tell me you put your signature to anything.”

Víli might have thought Dwalin was joking, save for the fact that he’d not heard anything that passed for humor come out of Dwalin or Thorin’s mouths in the time he’d known them. Seemed odd that he’d start now.

“Er...I did,” Víli said cautiously. “A wee bit, aye.”

“Have you met them?” Dwalin asked. He and Thorin exchanged a glance whose significance was known only to the two of them.

“Got acquainted...well, Dori seemed a quiet sort of fellow, didn’t have much to say - ”

This time it was Thorin’s turn to blink in shock. “Dori,” he repeated. “Dori, son of Hornbori, didn’t have much to _say?”_

“Didn’t get his sire’s name,” Víli shrugged. “Might be two different Doris.”

“Well, there might be two different Doris in the wide world,” Dís acknowledged. She didn’t seem quite as horrified as he kinsmen, but she was giving Víli a queer searching look that he didn’t understand. Why the alarm? They were only dwarves, after all. “But there’s no more than one Nori - did you meet him? What’d you think?”

“Shy, he seemed,” Víli replied. “Bit frightened o’strangers, I thought, but that’s not so queer, is it?”

“Shy?” Dís asked, her voice rising up a squeaky octave as she spoke. _“Shy?_ Nori’s never been shy a day in his life and if _he’s_ being quiet, it’s ‘cos he’s up to no good. Did you check your pockets when you got home? Notice a few missing coins from your purse?”

“I didn’t have any money on me,” Víli replied, cocking his head and looking at the smithies as though they’d all gone slightly mad on him.

“That’s lucky for you,” Dwalin said, shaking his head. “Otherwise you’d have been out your pub money.”

“Irpa would’ve paid you back,” Thorin sighed. “She always does.”

“Now wait just a half a minute,” Víli said, raising his hands to stopper their dire statements about Nori’s sticky fingers. “Just telling you what I seen and thought, isn’t I? They didn’t seem half so bad as you’re saying.”

“They’re not _bad,”_ Dís said at once, glancing up at her brother and cousin for help explaining. “They’re just...er...Missus Irpa’s very kind.”

“But you got some quarrel with her lads?” Víli might have been pressing a bit, but he thought he was entitled to do so; clearly one of them had the wrong side of it, though he still wasn’t entirely convinced that it was him.

Dwalin snorted, “Best not to quarrel with them. Dori can talk your ear off, does more damage with his tongue than with his fists - but don’t mistake me, he can land a _nasty_ blow. And Nori’s a sneak and a liar.”

“He’s a lad!” Víli protested.

“Aye, and a sneak and a liar,” Dwalin repeated. “We’ve known him since he was so high and he’s been nothing but trouble since he learned to walk.”

Víli paused a beat to let that information sink in. This was Dwalin the Fearsome, after all. The Scourge of the Orcs, the Terror from the East. And if he thought there was something to fear from that wee red-haired laddie, well, he ought to be listened to, oughtn’t he?

“Well,” Víli shrugged. “What’s done’s done. Getting settled in a few days hence. To tell the truth, I’m happy to be getting on.”

“Westerners change house often, do they?” Thorin asked, a little too sharply. He was looking paler than usual, for all the time he spent out of doors. His eyes were rimmed with grey and he kept rubbing at them irritably, as if the fire was causing him trouble.

“Nah, not without cause,” Víli said vaguely, glancing up to see where the sun had gotten to in the sky. “By me beard, when’d it get so late? Hope to see you up the pub this even - I’ll be having more spending money when I start paying Missus Irpa’s rent.”

“Shouldn’t you wait ‘til you’ve actually moved to do that?” Dís asked, cocking her head to the side in confusion.

“Ah, lassie,” Víli winked at her. “Where’s the fun in waiting?”

Thorin snorted and shook his head as Víli made his way down the road. He turned back to his anvil, muttering, “Idiot,” as he hefted his hammer.

His sister threw a damp rag at his head once Víli was far enough off that she didn’t think he’d turn back when he heard the commotion.

“He’s nice!” Dís protested as Thorin lobbed it back at her.

Thorin looked at her with his lips pursed, as if _she_ was the one being rude. “I never said he wasn’t. In fact, I agree with you. I also think he’s an idiot.”

Dwalin cuffed him on the back of the head as he passed by, seemingly only to add insult to injury. “That’s diplomacy for you.”

“We’re not in the throne room now, are we?” Thorin asked, only a little bitterly. “I can say what I like in my own forge, can’t I? Or can’t I? We are _renting_ after all.”

“Buzz, buzz, buzz,” Dwalin retorted.

“Save the quotations for Balin,” Thorin rolled his eyes. “He recites them rather better.”

“You’re both of you sour as rotten grapes,” Dís mumbled, using the file a touch more aggressively than was necessary.

“Blame your brother,” Dwalin was quick to reply. “He spends so much time being out of sorts, I thought it must be good fun and reckoned on trying it myself.”

“It doesn’t suit you nearly as well as it does him,” Dís said, unable to hide her smile. “Thorin’s got a face made for frowning.”

“Ey!” Thorin looked at her sharply.

Dwalin stroked his beard contemplatively. “Aye, he does. Best if he doesn’t laugh or smile. He’d fright all the paying customers away, with that face. Ah! See there, look at that smirk! I’m half frightened out of my wits already.”

It was with a great and valiant effort that Thorin attempted to maintain a scowl in the face of all this teasing. Unfortunately his will wasn’t up to it and he wound up favoring his kinfolk with a very small smile.

“No!” Dís shouted, covering her eyes. “I can’t watch! It’s hideous!”

“Hideous, am I?” Thorin caught her about the waist and kissed her on the top of the head. “There. Now you’ve caught it.”

Dís twisted in her brother’s arms and kissed his cheek, smugly informing him, “You’ve caught it back.”

Thorin looked at Dwalin and his cousin laughed. “Come on, then,” he said, opening his arms as if expecting to be charged. “Do your worst.”

But Thorin shook his head, “Back to work.”

And work they did, for a few hours in companionable silence until Thorin paused and looked at his sister. “You’re off with them again tonight?”

His voice was carefully measured, deliberately casual. Obviously the result of a great effort since Thorin rarely modulated his voice for pitch; when he was hurt, angry, or sorrowful, it was heard in every word.

Dís tried hard to hear something of what he was thinking when he spoke; either accusation or disappointed, but she heard nothing beneath the simple inquiry.

“I thought I’d go,” she shrugged. “I’ve got a few pennies for a dram of ale. Just a dram, of course.”

“Of course,” Thorin nodded and bent his head back to his pliers.

Dwalin drummed his fingers atop the anvil. “How about it, then?”

“No,” Thorin said without looking up.

Dwalin heaved an exasperated sigh, but didn’t get the chance to say another word for Thorin shook his head and said, “I’m not leaving Ama by herself. I’m not.”

“I could stay home,” Dís offered, cringing even as she said it; the idea of a silent meal taken at home with her mother, who would only pick at her food then go to bed early did not compare well with the knowledge of the laughter and companionship that awaited her at Bildr’s.

“I haven’t anyone to go out with,” Thorin said simply, earning him another thwap on the back of his head from Dwalin. Rubbing the back of his head, Thorin gave Dwalin a frank look. “You know what I mean. Why don’t you go out with them, if you’re so inclined?”

“Now you’re the one who’s an idiot,” Dwalin rolled his eyes. “If you have to ask.”

The silence that stretched in the wake Dwalin’s words was no longer quite so companionable. It was a fact as well established as the fact that the Mountains sang or the sky shone blue on a clear day; Dwalin could not enjoy himself when he knew Thorin was off making himself miserable and so Dwalin would not go out when Thorin insisted on staying in. It hadn’t always been that way, in Erebor when Thorin was feeling poorly, Dwalin had left him to his own devices, but everything was different now.

Neither of them said anything about it, they never had to. They’d been the closest of friends for nearly as long as both of them had been alive. When their other companions of childhood, their parents and mentors had fallen away one by one, they held fast to one another. And though Dwalin never said as much and _would_ never say as much, ever since Thráin had gone, he sometimes worried that if he took his eyes off Thorin for too long, his friend would disappear too.

Thorin knew; how could he not? Part of him chafed at Dwalin’s martyrdom, another part of him was grateful to know that someone cared. It was this second part of him that made him speak, very quietly, “Well. A drink after work would be alright.”

From across the smithy, Dís let out a whoop and Dwalin slapped Thorin on the back, “That’s the spirit!”

“Just one,” Thorin said warningly, but Dwalin waved his words away.

“Aye, one. It’ll be good for you,” he smirked. “Spend a bit of Longbeard coin in a Broadbeam pub. Should make the lords and ladies appreciative.”

“Oh, aye,” Thorin nodded sardonically. “That’s just what we need to secure our settlement - a few pennies spend on a pint of beer.”

“It’s a start,” Dís pointed out cheerfully.

Thorin smiled at her, a little less reluctantly than before.

“I suppose,” he said, half to himself. “I suppose it is at that.”

* * *

 

The pub wasn’t as crowded as it would become later in the evening. That fact alone did wonders for Thorin’s nerves, though he still couldn’t cast off the feeling that he was being watched, scrutinized. That there was someone with one eye on him at all times, just waiting for him to slip up.

“Mister Thorin! Bless me beard, you come at last!”

Thorin couldn’t help it; he cringed when he heard his name spoken in a Western lilt, but his shoulders relaxed when he recognized that it was only Víli. He was beginning to doubt that there was anything he could do to earn the miner’s ire; if Nori hadn’t met with his disapproval, he was sure nothing would.

But it wasn’t Víli who came over to greet them, it was Bifur, with an enormous welcoming smile on his face and a hearty handshake.

 _Welcome,_ he signed, gesturing Thorin over to a bench. _Sit. They go fast._

“Go on ahead,” Dwalin said, looking as if he was on the verge of uttering the words ‘I told you so,’ but was far too mature to stoop to such tactics. The little schooing gesture he added to punctuate his words was still a bit much. Thorin was about to say so, but Bifur slung a friendly arm round his shoulders and led him toward the dwarves crowded around a small, round table.

Dís was already sitting between Hervor and the miner with the curling mustache who Thorin vaguely remembered was called Bofur. He didn’t seem as cheerful as was his wont, though he looked up and gave Thorin a little nod when he sat. His red-haired brother, who happened to be seated to Thorin’s right, tried to scoot over to put some space between them, but nearly fell off the bench when he tried.

“I…” he started, then trailed off, looking anxiously up at Thorin. “I don’t got no special duties, eh? For sitting by you?”

“Nah,” Dís said quickly, grinning up at her brother. “Only take care he doesn’t sit _too_ close - you don’t want his bad mood rubbing off on you.”

“I could switch with you, Bombur,” Hervor offered. “I’m cheery enough to withstand Thorin’s at his most dour!”

The lass winked at Thorin and he felt as sharp pang as he remembered Heidrek. Hervor’s older brother was never happier than when he was teasing Thorin about his disposition. Once he got it in his head to do something about it.

 _“You want kissing,”_ he declared one evening when the apprentice guardsmen had dipped their beards one time too many in pilfered Firebeard whiskey. _“That’ll cheer you.”_

 _“Will it?”_ Thorin asked, raising an eyebrow, his usual reticence gone in the haze that had settled over his mind. _“Go on then, cheer me.”_

The kiss had done nothing, but make Thorin laugh; he wasn’t Made for romance the way some others were. Heidrek pounced on him, and he tasted more of his beard and his tongue than his lips. But it had cheered him, if only for how ridiculous it all was - for how ridiculous Heidrek _himself_ could be. Even in their exile, he tried to keep spirits up, tried to keep smiles on their faces. If it weren’t for Heidrek and Frerin, they might none of them have laughed again.

But that was a dangerous road to tread and Thorin mastered his thoughts well away from it. He only shook his head at Hervor in exaggerated exasperation. He even managed a small, crooked smile when she blew a kiss at him.

Bombur relaxed and smiled at Thorin a bit uncertainly. “It’s only I never knowed a king afore.”

Thorin shrugged his shoulders, unsure of what to say. _I’m not a king,_ was his first thought. _It’s my father you’re wanting to meet, not I._

But his father was gone and Thorin was saved the trouble of answering when a mug of thick, black beer was placed before him.

“Asked for the best of the house,” Dwalin announced, setting his own mug down and squeezing in between Bifur and Thorin. “And they gave me pitch, I don’t know if I ought to be insulted or not.”

“That’s no insult, Mister Fearsome!” Víli waggled his finger across the table at him. “Why that there’s not only the best brew you’ll ever taste, it’s downright _dangerous_ , ain’t that so, Bofur?”

“Huh?” Bofur asked, vaguely, rubbing his eyes. Víli jabbed him hard in the ribs with his elbow and that seemed to jostled something in his head. “Oh, aye. Suppose so.”

Víli’s brow creased and he seemed about to speak to Bofur again, but thought better of it, instead he directed his words at Thorin. “Got a fine little ditty to drink it down to, if you’re of a mind for music.”

“Oh, don’t,” a serving maid requested airily as she moved past their table, taking platters of roast meat and potatoes with her. The smell made Thorin’s stomach rumble, but he was mindful of his light purse and didn’t let his eyes take in what his mouth could not. “There isn’t nearly enough talk to drown you out.”

“Don’t pay her a _bit_ of mind,” Thyra said when the girl was out of earshot. Víli’s got a fine voice.”

“Runs in the family,” Víli said with a significant look at Bombur. His cousin blushed and took a long draught from his mug. Víli poked Bofur again. “How ‘bout it, boyo? Play me in?”

“Don’t got me pipe,” Bofur replied.

Víli looked aghast. “Don’t got your pipe! Go on! That’s about as hard to believe as you saying you don’t got your hat - and I sees your hat right there on your head!”

“I got me hat, not me pipe,” Bofur mumbled into his beer.

Again, Víli looked as if he wanted to say more, but he bit his tongue, then dove under the table and fumbled around by everyone’s boots until he came back up with a gittern in hand.

“Well, thank the Maker I weren’t Made so forgetful,” he said, plucking the strings and tightening them to sweeten the sound. “Go on, Mister King Thorin Oakenshield...sir. Have a drink, have a listen.

_“At the pub on the crossroad there’s whiskey and beer_   
_There’s brandy’s imported - it’s fragrant, but dear_   
_But for killing the thirst and for aiding the gout_   
_There’s nothing at all beats a pint of good stout!”_

It was good - and heavy, which chased away some of Thorin’s hunger that lingered from his sniff of the food that had come by. It was true, Víli did have a fine voice and contrary to the barmaid’s prediction about what a nuisance he’d be, no one seemed to mind when he started singing. He was even favored with some scattered applause by the end.

_“It’s this lovely porter that has me this way,_   
_For it’s sweeter than buttermilk and stronger than tea._   
_But when in the morning I feel kinda rough,_   
_Me curse the ‘lord Bildr who brews the damn stuff!_

_Drink it up, then, it’s long after ten  
Drink it up, then, it’s long after ten!”_

“I haven’t heard that one before,” Dís said when he finished. “What pirate taught it to you?”

“No one, lass,” Víli said, tucking his gittern away beneath the table. “Thought it up out o’me own head.”

“You’re a liar!” Hervor declared. “That was too good.”

“Hervor!” Dís smacked her, but Víli only laughed.

“If I’m to be called a liar on account o’me songs being quality, I can’t think o’no better compliment,” Víli acknowledged grandly, tipping back his mug and taking a hearty gulp of his ale.

“That’s how you ought to pay Missus Irpa’s rent,” Dwalin advised. “Sell a few songs.”

It wasn’t a bad notion, Thorin thought. He’d not joined in on the praise or the clapping, but he had enjoyed the music. He kept his eyes on Víli’s hands all the while, enjoying his skill in playing upon the strings. Though he’d learned to play the harp when he was a lad, his instruments were surely burned away and he’d never had the time or the inclination to visit a luthier. Maybe now...but, no. There would always be worthier causes that needed his money and attention.

“Nah, I’d rather give ‘em away for cheap,” Víli shook his head. “Anyway, mining’s steadier pay.”

“Bad business sense, that one has,” Thyra tutted.

“Now, I’ll own I ain’t a liar,” Víli replied easily. “But I never said I had no head for business.”

The conversation shifted from genial banter over Víli’s atrocious prospects as a troubadour to hushed and outrageous town gossip. Thorin had very little to contribute to either conversation, but despite the high quality of his beer, he drank it slowly and noticed that Dwalin, who could down pints with the same speed and fury of a waterfall, was sipping just as delicately as he was.

 _You stay,_ Thorin signed surreptitiously beneath the table after he’d caught Dwalin’s eye.

 _Short time,_ Dwalin signed back, stubborn to the last.

Before they could get into an argument about it, Bifur, with all the conscientious effort of a good host, broke in to the conversation with idle chatter.

 _Room good?_ Bifur interjected with his hands.

Thorin nodded and replied, _Good. Not perfect. Aboveground. Light._

The smile Bifur bestowed upon him was sympathetic, but not patronising. _Same. I was young aboveground. Not so bad. Small money on fire. And you?_

Dwalin shrugged. _Brother and I belowground. Good. Nothing bad._

 _Brother?_ Bifur signed curiously, eyebrow raising as if the omission of Balin from their company was something of a surprise. _He drinks?_

 _Bad company,_ Dwalin grinned and Bifur laughed.

 _I think no,_ Bifur signed in return, then asked Thorin, _Teasing?_

 _Always,_ Thorin replied. Draining his mug to the very bottom, he got up from the table, signing. _I go._

“So soon?” Hervor asked, though she hadn’t said a word to Thorin the last ten minutes together. “You’ve only just arrived.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not taking your companion from you,” Thorin said as he extricated himself from the bench.

“It’s not her I worry about,” Hervor said, giving Thorin a significant look that he chose to ignore. Bad enough Dwalin fussed over him, he did _not_ need another cousin wasting a moment’s thought on his well-being.

“Come along, Thorin,” Dís asked with a hint of a whinge in her voice. “Please?”

He almost indulged her, but he felt his empty pockets and his stomach churned uncomfortably when he contrasted the warmth and the noise of the alehouse with his family’s empty flat. Those three rooms weren’t much to brag about, but any place could seem cavernous when one was alone. He’d left his mother too long.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said, intending his words to be for his sister alone, but Bifur seemed to think Thorin included the whole table.

 _I hope so,_ he said as Thorin and Dwalin took their leave.

“Count on it,” Dwalin assured him and inclined his head at the rest of them. “G’night.”

“Don’t seem half so frightful up close,” Thorin heard Thyra saying as they left the pub.

“Which one?” Bombur asked, but he did not hear her reply as they spilled out into the darkening streets.

“Your reputation’s losing some of its edge,” Thorin said, bumping his shoulder against Dwalin’s.

“Ah, let it,” his cousin said, nudging him in return. “It could stand a bit of blunting.”

Thorin smiled to himself, but didn’t say anything about it. After Azanulbizar, the name ‘Dwalin’ seemed to conjure up images of fear and awe from dwarrow-kind and it was true he fought like a bear, all teeth and claws, but the stories outstripped the deeds. Dís was especially guilty of embellishing tales of him, sometimes to levels stretching credulity to the breaking point. When he heard her terrifying a group of camp children with some wild story that turned a brief argument with a fishmonger over salt cod into an account wherein the ground shook with the sound of his voice and fire shot from his eyes, singing the rotting fish to bits, Thorin pulled her aside to have a talk.

 _“What’s that you’re going on about?”_ he asked. _“Saying things like that about Dwalin, he’s always been sweet to you.”_

 _“Of course he’s sweet,”_ she said. _“That’s what’s so funny, my Dwalin’s so kind and everyone’s afraid of him anyway! I’d rather they not know what he’s really like, that way I get the sweet Dwalin for myself and everyone else can have the fearsome one.”_

The idea had merit, Thorin supposed. Most dwarves were more than their reputations after all. And some were less.

They parted as they passed Dwalin’s street. He reached out and squeezed Thorin on the shoulder. “Proud of you.”

Thorin blinked. “Proud? For drinking a mug of beer?”

“Aye,” Dwalin said seriously. “It’s the best turn you’ve done yourself all year. ‘Night.”

“‘Night,” Thorin echoed. It was a beat too late, Dwalin had turned and gone, leaving Thorin alone in the road. Thought it wasn’t cold, he shoved his hands into his pockets as he went the rest of the way to the flat, puzzling Dwalin’s odd words over and over, trying and failing to make sense of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm basically sharing Dwalin's feelings at this point - good for Thorin! Of course, it can't last, but let's enjoy him while he socializes. The song Víli sang was "Drink It Up, Men" by The Dubliners and Dwalin was quoting _Hamlet._


	9. Chapter 9

It wasn’t every day that Víli came round the forge, but on the fourth day when the sun rose over the hilltops without being accompanied by his smile, Dís found herself lingering by the stall window, squinting down the road.

“Could be he’s busy,” Dwalin offered, brushing invisible dust off the countertop, brighter now with a new coat of blue paint. “I’m sure he’s not forgotten you, lass.”

“It’s not...I don’t…” she stammered, but Dwalin just winked at her and tousled her hair. “I’m just worried I insulted him somehow.”

“Nonsense,” Thorin leaned his elbows on the counter. “If anything, it was probably me.”

“You’re both of you too maudlin,” Dwalin informed them, swatting at Thorin’s arms. He’d been the one to paint the thing and didn’t want it getting more use than it needed. “If he _could_ be insulted, which I’m doubting at this point. Not by the likes of you, lass.”

“And me?” Thorin asked.

“Well, you were Made for giving insult, weren’t you?” Thorin lunged for him, but Dwalin darted out of the way and shouted out a greeting just in time to stop Thorin before he leaped out onto the road in pursuit of him.

It was Víli at last, walking a little more slowly than usual. His smile was just as bright, but he seemed tired. “Morning all! Misters and Miss. ‘Nother lovely day on your account, I’m sure.”

“‘Course,” Dís smiled, but a little worry line creased her brow. “Alright?”

“Me? Oh, aye,” Víli nodded, scrubbing a hand over his face. He wasn’t what anyone would call fussy, but he did look a little like he’d thrown himself together that morning. His hair was out of his face, but it had a matted looked as if it hadn’t been brushed that morning and his mustaches were drooping limply around his mouth. “Just been down the...up the...s’been a rough few days. Family matters.”

“Oh,” Dís said, feeling heat rise in her cheeks. She thought it was selfish of her to have supposed that Víli’s staying away had anything to do with her in particular. And to bother about it when he was having family difficulties. She hadn’t any idea what to say; no one in her family would have admitted to such.

But these Westerners...well, they weren’t of Erebor. They were freer with their words, certainly, for Víli went on, as if it was perfectly normal to speak of private matters with near-strangers on the street.

“Bifur has bad nights sometimes,” Víli said, scratching the back of his head with his mattock. “S’had a few in a row, so I come over just to stay with him so’s Bofur an’ Bombur can get a bit o’rest.”

Thorin’s breathing had picked up the pace while Víli was talking. He turned away from them all to look back at the fire, “You don’t have to explain.”

“S’pose I don’t,” Víli shrugged, misunderstanding him completely. “You all was there, eh? Had a few bad nights yourselves.”

Thorin rounded on him with fury in his eyes, but Dwalin stepped in front of him, blocking him from Víli’s view. “You’re behind your time,” he said, but not unkindly.

Víli blinked up at the sun. “I am at that - still, pub tonight! We could all use a drink, eh? See you later!”

Dís waved until Víli was out of sight, then turned back, expecting Dwalin and Thorin to start in on each other right away. She’d got a glimpse of her brother’s face, she knew his temper. Quick to flare and it lingered long, like hot coals under a layer of ash. But Thorin wasn’t raging. When Dwalin turned to face him, he had his head in his hand and was massaging his temples.

“He didn’t mean any harm,” Dwalin said simply.

Thorin nodded, breathing hard out his nose. He was leaning against the counter with his other hand, but Dwalin didn’t scold him for it.

“D’you want - ” he began, but Thorin shook his head. Dwalin rocked back on his heels, then took hold of Dís’s arm, dragging her away from the forge. “Come on. We’re getting some kindling.”

They were not, but Dís knew better than to argue. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw Thorin disappear behind the stall; he’d sat on the floor.

“Should we be leaving him alone?” she asked worriedly. What she didn’t say, but Dwalin heard was, _Will he be there when we come back?_

He put an arm around her shoulders and she wrapped one arm around his back. By the Maker, she was stick skinny. Finally getting her a few square meals a day hadn’t put much meat on her bones; she worked it all off by day’s end. But then, his belt was always tightened to the last notch, so he hadn’t much room to talk.

“Just for a few minutes,” he reassured her. “Just needs a…”

Dwalin trailed off, for he couldn’t rightly say what Thorin needed. A quick cry. A scream. A shudder. He had these...spells sometimes. Huffing and puffing like he’d run a mile, though he stood stock still. His heart would beat so fast his head turned red, then he went so pale that Dwalin feared he’d faint. Cold sweats and he’d sway like he was dizzy. It was all the nerves in him, Dwalin thought, going off at once. They passed, given time and more quickly if Thorin didn’t have an audience.

“‘Least you know it wasn’t you,” Dwalin said, squeezing Dís’s shoulder. Poor lass.

If he was trying to make her smile, it didn’t work. “I thought he was feeling better.”

Her eyes were downcast and she was nibbling on her lower lip. Dwalin poked her chin, “What? You didn’t have enough breakfast?”

That got her looking at him, even if she didn’t smile.

“I just want him to be happy,” Dís said softly.

 _So do I,_ Dwalin thought, but all he managed was a sigh. “Oh, lass.”

“Sorry,” Dís mumbled, looking at her boots.

Poor lass, he thought again. Poor girl, to suffer her brother’s fall, her father’s disappearance, her mother’s coldness and Thorin’s pain and she just wanted them all to be _happy._ It was such a little thing, or it had been once. Once they’d all been happy. He remembered, but it was little wonder that she didn’t.

“Come along,” Dwalin said, lifting her chin and kissing her forehead. “Nothing to be sorry about. It’s a noble goal. Aspirational.”

Dís cocked her head up at him. “What’s aspirational?”

“It means something that’s worth striving for,” he replied. That earned him a smile.

“You ought to leave off smithing and be a schoolmaster,” she said and Dwalin swatted her nose. “Hey!”

“Am I getting shorter or are you mistaking me for Balin?” he asked, drawing her to his side once again and walking back toward the forge.

“You ought to get shorter,” Dís said, leaning her head against his side. “Then I won’t get a sore neck looking up at you.”

“Nothing doing,” Dwalin shook his head. “You’ve just got to get taller.”

“Working on it,” she said earnestly, rising up on her toes. She was about eye-level with his chin, but she had been shooting up recently and she took after her grandmother; there was hope for her yet.

Thorin was standing when they returned and he looked at the air behind them, rather than their faces when he said, “I’m s - ”

“So lonely?” Dwalin supplied for him, raising an eyebrow. “I can well understand that, I’m great company.”

It wasn’t much of a joke, but the lines around Thorin’s eyes and mouth eased; he was too young for his face to look so careworn. Far too young, but then, so they all were.

* * *

 

When noon rolled around, Dís and Dwalin went to the stream to fetch water to replenish the slack tub while Thorin headed into the village to purchase food for them all. He found himself at Alfi’s bakery, which was becoming a habit. Thorin was not inclined to meet more folk than he had to - a personal failing he’d suffered from all his life, but one on this day that he decided to indulge.

Bad nights, aye, he had bad nights. And bad days. But his head was uncleaved, his arms strong and his legs intact. Despite his best efforts to distract himself with work after he pulled himself together, he couldn’t stop thinking of Bifur. He’d been so cheerful ever time Thorin saw him, so welcoming. He needn’t have been. If he’d spat in Thorin’s face or worse, he wouldn’t have blamed him. He’d lost so much - his livelihood, his _voice_ , his health. Yet he held no grudges.

“Be with you in a moment, Mister Thorin!” Thyra smiled at him when he walked it. Thorin managed a small answering smile, standing off to the side awkwardly as other Broadbeams had their orders filled. A few nodded at him as they left, but most ignored him, which suited Thorin well. He folded his arms and looked down at his boots, like a particularly taciturn boulder.

Golden hair imposed itself in his line of vision, then Thorin found himself looking down into bright green eyes.

“Well!” Thyra smiled brightly, laying a small, soft hand on his elbow. “You’ve got patience, that’s in short supply round here! You got to come by every day, it’s a treat not to be shouted for every moment.”

“Six pasties,” Thorin said, wincing since he really ought to have inquired after her health and her father’s, but he’d been rehearsing his order the whole way over, in between thinking about Bifur and his earlier behavior.

“Right-o!” Thyra nodded, patting his arm affectionately. “Pork?”

“Please.”

“Wish we had some beef to offer, but we’ve been out for ages,” she chatted. “Milk’s more useful to us than anything else, but me Ma does the beef up delicious, when we’ve got some, I’ll be sure to let you know. S’a wee bit dearer than the pork, but worth every penny, let me tell you!”

“I’m sure,” Thorin said, glancing around. There was a great assortment of meat and sausage pies, along with sweeter confections that he didn’t look too closely at. Better to avoid temptation sometimes. Then again, his mother had been fond of sweets. If he found something she liked, he ought to bring it back. She hadn’t been eating enough.

“Thyra!” a higher voice than Alfi’s boomed from the back room and a very pretty face with a broad, flat nose, upturned at the end like Thyra’s, stuck itself through the back. This ‘dam Thorin took to be her mother for they had the same yellow hair, though her mother’s beard was done up in tight ringlets whereas her daughters favored whiskers braided back into her hair, like her father. “Don’t be forgetting to bring something to eat to Bifur, now!”

“Aye, ma’am,” she agreed at once. “Just as soon as I’ve tidied a bit...oh, but I hate to make him wait - ”

“I’ll go.”

Thorin must have spoken the words. Indeed, there was no one but him in the shop, certainly no one with a voice so deep as his. It must have been his voice. But for the life of him, Thorin couldn’t fathom why he’d volunteered. He scarcely knew him, after all, and if he was anything like Thorin himself when he was out of sorts, he wouldn’t want company.

But Thyra seemed to think it was a perfectly natural offer to make. “Oh, would you?” she asked, delighted. “I do love paying him a call, but after the noontime rush, it’s nice to have a moment to meself - do you know the way, then?”

Thorin admitted that he did not know the way, but Thyra was only too happy to give him detailed instructions on the swiftest way to the miners’ lodgings nearest the Eastern ridge. Her mother came out a moment later holding a sack that seemed both too large and too heavy to supply a single meal.

“Just a wee something for their larder,” she said. “S’fitting for him what made such a sacrifice - and who’re you, now?”

Her gaze was a tiny bit shrewder than her husband’s, her expression less open, but she was smiling.

“This is Mister Thorin, Ma,” Thyra explained. “Him who’s people come over from the East to stay along of us. I telled you I got to know his sister a fair few weeks back.”

“Oh, aye!” the mother said, her expression clearing at once. She extended a hand and Thorin shook it, inclining his head and muttering, “Missus.”

“Pleasure to meet you at last,” she bobbed her head, beard ornament jingling. Now that she’d come closer Thorin could see that her beard was kept bound up in a net of silver mesh, presumably to keep it out of her cooking. Her eyes were green, not blue, her skin redder and a good deal more freckled, but she actually reminded him a great deal of his mother, in better times.

If only Ama would eat more, could get a bit of the stout plumpness that this lady had, he thought she might feel a bit better all around.

“I’m called Sayra,” she went on, snapping Thorin out of his thoughts. “Goodness, I thought me daughter was telling falsehoods, going on ‘bout how you Longbeards is tall as Men, but it weren’t no tale, were it?”

Thorin smiled and said, “Oh, I’m not anything special; you ought to meet my cousin.”

“Taller?” she asked, eyebrows raising and taking with them six rings studded through them in a handsome arc.

“Aye,” Thorin said, then feeling a bit of the same impishness that made Dís exaggerate poor Dwalin’s reputation, added, “Much.”

Sayra whistled through her teeth. “My, my. Well, I hope we see more of you - we ought to, I think, you’re dreadful skinny.”

“Ma!” Thyra exclaimed flushing.

“What?” Sayra asked. “Just giving a say-so as I seen it, nothing wrong with that. Just honest talk, Thorin’s not offended, are you?”

“No, ma’am,” he replied. Maybe it was the fact that this lady reminded him of Ama, but he had a feeling that it would be easier for all if he agreed. Besides, it wasn’t as though she was wrong. They all of them looked a little haggard.

“Thorin’s got to be off,” Thyra said impatiently. “We don’t want Mister Bifur’s food going cold, eh?”

“Oh! No, we don’t.” Sayra disappeared into the back with a wave, but not before exacting a promise from Thorin that he and his would come by more regularly; especially that cousin he mentioned. She wanted to _see_ him, if nothing else.

Poor Dwalin, Thorin thought as he exited to the street. They did like to make much of him, didn’t they? He could take it; he’d always been good-natured.

Thorin was forced to inquire the way once he arrived at the apartments. Bifur and his cousins lived three levels belowground and he stood before the door with his fist raised for a full three minutes, plucking up the courage to knock. Maybe Bifur would be asleep. Maybe he could leave the food and go.

But Thorin heard the shuffling of footsteps almost at once following his knock. The door opened at first a crack, then threw it open wide when Bifur recognized him.

 **“What brings you hither?”** he asked, smiling broadly and beckoning Thorin inside.

 **“I have come from the bake-shop,”** he replied a trifle awkwardly, lifting the sack to show him.

Bifur’s black eyes widened. **“You needn’t have brought it all.”**

Thorin chuckled, “I wasn’t given much choice.”

Nodding knowingly, Bifur beckoned Thorin in again and signed that he ought to take a seat. Not wanting to be rude, Thorin sat down where he was bid, but was forced to set the sack on the floor since the kitchen table was covered over with carvings. Some were complete, others rough shapes in the wood. The smell of wet paint was immediately evident to him and he couldn’t help his fingers from straying to the figure of a bear, cut and shaded, tiny paws raised as if in attack.

 **“Wet,”** Bifur cautioned him and Thorin lowered his hand, curling his fingers in like a chastised dwarfling who’d gotten too close to the fire.

“Very good,” Thorin said, looking over Bifur’s handiwork. “All yours?”

 **“Aye,”** he replied, taking the seat next to Thorin. There was paint under his fingernails; clearly Thorin had interrupted him at work. Despite the fact that he’d interrupted another’s crafting, Thorin could not help feeling slightly better. Bifur could not be too badly off if he could still work.

 **“I must craft toys for Sayra’s little ones,”** he mused. **“To express my gratitude.”**

“Little ones?” Thorin asked, surprised. Thyra was around Hervor’s age, he thought and while it was not unusual for families to have children very far apart in years, he was surprised that Thyra might have more than one younger sibling.

Bifur smiled broadly. **“They have six children, Sayra and Alfi. Thyra is the eldest and the only one of age.”**

 _“Six?”_ Thorin repeated, sitting back in his chair. That was nearly unheard of in the West. Indeed, his mother was considered quite blessed for having three, he could not remember the last family of his acquaintance that had more than four.

 **“Four boys, two girls,”** Bifur nodded, then winced, hand rising to his brow, then falling again. **“Very blessed, that family, but it is no surprise; Sayra is one of seven.”**

But Thorin had not heard him, preoccupied as he was by his showing of pain.

“Shall I leave you?” he asked, rising automatically. “I just came to bring you - ”

 _Sit, sit,_ Bifur signed, then spoke, **“I like company.”**

Thorin’s heartrate had picked up again, just as it did in the smithy. _Not here,_ he thought. _Not now._

Whether Bifur picked up on his nerves or not, Thorin couldn’t tell, but he kept talking, saving Thorin the trouble of speaking for himself.

 **“The mines provided a steadier income, perhaps, but toymaking...that I have an inclination toward,”** he made an expansive gesture, encompassing the table. **“Blessings come in disguises, they say - this one is a very good disguise.”**

Thorin’s expression was likely something in between horrified and stricken. He must have looked very bad for Bifur reached out and patted his knee reassuringly.

 **“If you do not laugh…”** he trailed off and ended in a shrug. **“How do you fare?”**

Thorin hardly knew how to answer that. _Poorly,_ he wanted to say, but was it so? Not when he was healthy and the only troubles he suffered were those that affected his people. Or those that came from his own weakness of mind.

“Well enough,” he settled on, but he did not meet Bifur’s eyes. He stood, running a hand through his hair. “I really must go. I didn’t intend to stay so long.”

 **“I am pleased that you did,”** Bifur said, rising as well to show him to the door. **“Can you not eat? There is an abundance.”**

Thorin raised his own, much small sack of goods. “I have to deliver these as well, then back to work.”

 **“Saya ought to pay you for running her food through the town,”** Bifur said, resting a strong hand on Thorin’s shoulder for a moment before he bid him farewell. He signed, _Drink tonight?_

Thorin thought of his mother’s pale cheeks and thin fingers, thinking she ate more when she had company. “Not tonight. Some other time.”

 **“I look forward to it,”** Bifur said. **“Truly.”**

The flush on Thorin’s cheeks did not begin in earnest until he was on his way out the door. He did not know why he should be so touched; had it truly been so long since he’d experienced genuine friendliness from a stranger? Was he so accustomed to scorn that simple good will threw him utterly?

He was, he realized. For he could not remember the last time that someone told him they looked forward to seeing him.


	10. Chapter 10

“Not bad diggings,” Bofur remarked, looking round at Víli’s room for the first time. Bifur was feeling much better and as the two of them had a bit of free time, Víli decided to spend some of it persuading his cousin to have a look at his new living arrangement. Bofur agreed; it wasn’t in his nature to be resentful and resisting was wearing on him. 

The room was a good-sized one, with its own fire and all. There was a window looking out onto the brick wall of the neighboring building, which Bofur quite liked; almost gave one the impression that they were underground rather than over it. The room was sparsely furnished with a bed, a workbench, chair and two trucks filled with Víli’s sloppily packed belongings, tools, clothes, combs and other personal detritus. Didn’t feel exactly home-like to Bofur, but he supposed Víli was used to that. 

_“Ain’t so ‘customed to his lodgings as we is ours,”_ Bombur gently explained shortly after Víli made the move and Bofur took to open sulking. _“‘least this house always belonged to Auntie and Uncle, eh? Víli’s rooms’re too big for him, you don’t want him to be lonesome, do you?”_

Indeed, Bofur did not. And he supposed that taking a room for himself in another family’s home was a wee bit more sensible than cramming in with his cousins in their flat that wasn’t sized well for more than three. Sensible, but that didn’t mean Bofur had to _like_ it.

“How’s the landlady?” he asked. He hadn’t got a glimpse of any of the family, they were all upstairs at work and neither he nor Víli was of a mind to bother them while they were crafting.

“Kindly,” Víli said at once. “Sweet, I think - and awfully pretty too, all them ‘dams what comes from the East is pretty, you seen that?”

Bofur shrugged. They were handsome enough, he supposed, he didn’t make much notice of such things in general. “Miss Hervor’s turned every head as gets turned by pretty dwarrowdams from the top of the peaks down to the depths. Hair’s tolerably lovely.”

“Oh, aye,” Víli agreed. “That lot upstairs all got bonny hair - coppery, like pennies, the lot of ‘em.”

“Dís was talking like the shine don’t go no deeper than their hair,” Bofur remarked, chancing a smile. His assessment was more generous by far than hers. 

_“I give him a week,”_ she whispered to Bofur in confidence one morning when they met at the bake-shop. _“Unless he knows a good recipe for a headache tonic, you could hear Dori and Nori’s rows clear across the camp during a thunderstorm.”_

Víli chuckled, good-naturedly. “Y’know, one thing I got to say ‘bout these Eastern dwarves - bonny beards and forms aside - they got to be the direst-thinking lot I ever knowed. Can’t say as I blame them, knowing what they been through, but they could look right up at a big blue sky and say, ‘Looks like rain!’”

Bofur laughed and nodded his head. Aye, he’d noticed that too. Damned dreary lot, ‘least their menfolk were. Misses Dís and Hervor easier to cheer, but as far as King Thorin and Fearsome Dwalin were concerned...well, he’d seen gargoyles who smiled easier than them. 

“S’pose I figured if they say there’s aught to be nervy of, you ought to take ‘em serious. They don’t seem to spook easy,” Bofur said, raising his eyes through the ceiling as if he could see the mysterious Missus Irpa and her sons through the stone. “Not so bad as all that, then?”

“Nah, they’re alright,” Víli replied. “Quiet, ‘specially the younger lad, Nori...well, Dís might’ve been right ‘bout him having a sneaky streak, but he’s not so neat about it. One o’the locks on me trunk’s scratched all over, must’ve taken the lad an age to work on it ‘fore he gave up. Would’ve saved him a good bit o’trouble if he realized it weren’t locked.” 

That was one of his Auntie Varla’s wise old notions. Uncle Fíli used to chide her about leaving the door unlocked all hours of the day and night, but she always said if a body wanted to turn thief and try and rob them, they either had to be so desperate that she wouldn’t mind parting with a few pennies to ease their way, or they’d soon see there wasn’t anything they had worth taking and would walk themselves right back out again. It’d save them having to replace broken locks, anyway.

In the end, locks hadn’t been able to keep the Orcs out. 

Bofur’s face creased, as if he got a sour taste under his tongue, but he wasn’t about to spit on the wooden floors. He swallowed instead, then smiled at Víli. “Not bad, this. So long’s your happy? Are you?”

“Happier now as you’ve come and seen it,” Víli said, nudging him on the arm. No bad blood, no hurt feelings that couldn’t be mended with a joke and an embrace. That was how it had always been with them. “And nearer the pub, so’s if your needing a place to rest your weary head - ”

“Ha!” Bofur laughed, slapping Víli on the back. “You ought to’ve mentioned that straight off! Would’ve saved me a good bit o’moaning and stomping me feet.”

“Well,” Víli said, putting an arm around Bofur’s shoulders as he led him to the door, “as I caused you a bit o’silly heartache, seem I ought to buy you a drink to make up for it.”

Bofur hooted and knocked their heads together enthusiastically, “That you should! Best notion you had all month!”

They were two drinks in when the rest of their regular group turned up - oh, to be sure, Dís and Hervor were now among their ‘regulars,’ just as much as Bofur and Víli themselves. They were neither rowdy nor melancholy when they had a few pints in them and Bildr was always happy to fill his benches with dwarves who wouldn’t leave a mess behind in their wake. 

“Still here, are you?” Hervor asked Víli when she sat down. “You haven’t been driven out of your senses by constant bickering.”

Víli tutted and budged up so there’d be room for them all. “Nah, not at all. Why I hasn’t heard a peep from ‘em all the time I been there. Eldest lad don’t hardly say ‘boo,’ and I’ve tried to get him to talking! ‘Good Morning, Mister Dori,’ I says, ‘An’ how are you today?’ What d’you think he says?”

“Ooh, let me guess,” Dís volunteered, sitting up straight in her chair with sparkling eyes. “‘I’d be better if certain _young folk_ would mind their manners and wipe their feet before they come in - just because we live in the wilderness is not excuse for lack of basic cleanliness!’ He likes everything tidy and he’s always going on about young folk, as if he’s so old. He isn’t any older than Thorin.”

“Oh, Thorin’s practically a _grandsire_ ,” Hervor rolled her eyes. “Your poor brother, he was born two-hundred years old and grey of beard.”

“No, you’re thinking of Balin,” Dís said, kicking her under the table.

“Who’s Balin?” Víli asked, then added, “And you’re wrong, lassie, hasn’t said a word ‘bout young folk or me feet being dirty.”

“Balin’s Dwalin’s brother - elder brother,” Dís said, prompting Bombur to choke on his mead.

“Don’t tell me there’s two of him!” he exclaimed when his coughing fit passed. “Town’s not big enough for it, mark me.”

Both girls looked at each other and promptly burst out laughing. 

“Poor Balin!” Hervor cried. “We shouldn’t be laughing, stop laughing!”

“You laughed first!” Dís said defensively, throwing up her hands. “And ‘poor Balin’ nothing, he doesn’t need to be five feet tall to rend you limb from limb. It’s skill, not size that matters.”

Strangely, the fact that Dwalin’s brother was not yet another Easter giant come to take up quarters in the West didn’t do much for Bombur’s nerves. The phrase ‘rend you limb from limb,’ in reference to him drained the color from his cheeks. 

“Not to worry,” Dís said, reaching across the table and patting his hand. “Balin’s sweet, so long as you aren’t an orc.”

“Bombur, an orc?” Thyra asked, settling in to the free seat beside him. “Hardly! I’m sure orcs talk more.”

The color came back into Bombur’s cheeks in the form of a red blush. “Evenin’,” he muttered into his grog and Thyra smiled at him warmly, which deepened the flush in his cheeks.

“What’ll you have?” Oura asked. She’d only deigned to come over to their table when Thyra added herself to the party. With the miner cousins already stocked with drinks, she hadn’t seen anyone in their group worth waiting on.

“Just a pint o’lager, please,” Thyra ordered, sliding a few to her across the table. Oura pocketed the pennies at once, then turned toward Hervor and Dís expectantly.

“Pint of stout, if it doesn’t put you out,” Hervor requested, her voice sweet, but her eyes narrow. She placed her pennies in Oura’s hand when she stuck it out for payment, but she sucked in her cheeks and bit her tongue when she watched her drop them on a stone ledge, listening intently for the high dinging sound that copper ought to make when it fell. “Do I look like a counterfeiter?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Oura replied shortly. “I don’t keep such company, you’ll have to tell me. And you?”

Dís had been digging around in her pockets and missed the last exchange. She looked up sheepishly. “Forgot to pocket my earnings. Naught for me, thanks.”

“Oh, no!” Víli said, trying to flag Oura down again, but she’d turned on her heel and disappeared back to the bar before he could catch her eye. “Yours’ll be on me, I insist...eh. Ah. Bofur, you got any coppers on you?”

“Oh, aye,” his cousin nodded, then cocked his head sideways when his hand came up with more pocket lint than money. “Er. Half o’one. Bombur?”

His younger brother shook his head. “Nah, but if you don’t mind sharing, I’m more’n half full.” Bombur tried to push his mug at Dís but she shook her head.

“No, no, you paid for that,” she said, pushing it back toward him. “It’s yours by rights, I don’t need a pint, I just come for the conversation.”

“That’s a pretty phrase!” Víli groaned. “So pretty I’d like to pay you for it, but I haven’t any money - ey! EY! Bildr!”

Shouting wasn’t enough to get the landlord’s attention, but Bofur stood up and whistled loudly with his fingers. The whole pub hushed enough to hear Víli shout, “Stand Miss Dís here a pint o’something or other on me tab, eh?”

“Ha!” Bildr’s laugh rang out in the quiet. “Not ‘till you settle up _your_ drinks with me, laddie! The lassie can start her own tab, I’m sure she’d be timelier in her payments than you!”

“Fair enough!” Víli laughed and sat down, gesturing toward the bar. “Well, go on then - I can tell you from experience, Bildr’s no nag when it comes t’settling up, I thinks I owes him from when I come of age still!”

Dís glanced over at the bar, “No, I shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” Bofur asked. “I run meself a tab a time or two, just pay him back when next you’re in. Bildr don’t collect interest, he’s got enough o’business that he can afford a bit o’generosity.”

Dís glanced at Hervor, who looked a little wary. The wariness lasted only a second. Hervor shook her head briefly, then shrugged. “Well, we’re settled, aren’t we? It isn’t as if we’re going to suddenly pack up and move on the morrow. It’s only one drink, what harm could it do?”

What harm indeed? There was a little niggling voice of doubt in the back of Dís’s mind. Thorin never paid on credit. Thorin never owed anyone anything. Thorin had almost certainly never started a tab before in his life. But...well, things were different now, weren’t they? At any other inn or tavern they’d passed by, they’d only intended to stay the night or the week. Maybe a season, but that was the longest they stayed anywhere, save the Iron Hills during the wintertime. But even that place had seen the back of them long ago. They hadn’t been that far East since before the wars. 

Even in the Iron Hills, they always lived as if they might be forced out at any moment. Ama never unpacked their things, not properly. Though the rooms they lived in there were finer by far than their tents or ricket lean-tos on cliffsides, they did not fill the drawers with their clothes or supply the empty trunks with their things. Some of their people did, but not Dís’s family, nor Mister Fundin’s family or Missus Irpa or Gróin and Maeva. 

It never occurred to her to ask why they did not stay. She supposed it was the same reason why they never stayed anywhere for long. It wasn’t their home, they did not belong.

But here they were in the Blue Mountains. This wasn’t their home either, but her brother had them settle here, about as far from their kin in the Iron Hills as it was possible to get. It hadn’t struck her as odd before, nor did it now. She couldn’t think of Dáin, her cousin, without feeling a sharp stab of resentment in her chest and a shudder down her spine. How _could_ he order the bodies to be burned? What gave him the right? She hadn’t gotten to say goodbye. She hadn’t been given a chance. No sooner had the last of their wounded been dragged from the field than the pyres were built up. 

“Alright?” Víli asked. He was looking at her curiously, they all were. Dís wondered how long she’d been sitting silently. It must have been a good while for Hervor lay a hand on her leg and asked if she didn’t want to go back to her flat.

“No,” she said at once, getting off the bench and making for the bar. “I’m getting a drink.”

She had two, but was quite steady on her feet as she slogged home. Dís’s feet moved more and more slowly as she neared the artisans’ flats and it had nothing to do with how tired she was after a long day of work.

Terrible as it was to admit such a thing, she didn’t want to go back. Her mother was there and Dís was growing to dread spending time with her mother.

In the first place, Ama didn’t look well. She was pale in a way that bespoke ill health, not of a life lived belowground. Her hair was limp and thin, braided away from her face simply, as if she was perpetually ready for bed. Even on the roadside, Ama took care with her appearance, saying she wouldn’t shame her ancestors with an unkempt beard even if they lived in squalor. But Ama had cut her beard short, she kept it close-cut as she could. Too close, Dís thought; she spied a line of blood on her cheek where she’d been careless with the scissors. 

She had been sleeping a lot, Dís thought hopefully as she slid her key into the lock. Perhaps she would be -

“Skipping supper again?” 

No such luck. Freya stood before her, tapping her toe impatiently against the bare stone. 

“Not skipping,” Dís insisted meekly. “Just...I...I was with Hervor.”

“Hmm.” Her mother’s sharp eyes raked over her from head to foot and Dís squirmed a little under the scrutiny. She didn’t like feeling as if she’d been doing something wrong when she hadn’t been. There was nothing wrong with making friends, was there? “Well. Food’s cold. There’s a bad turn you’ve done yourself for I won’t warm it for you.”

“I can do that,” Dís said, stepping around her carefully, as if her mother was a trap ready to spring. “Where’s Thorin?”

“Within the Mountain,” Freya replied, following her, watching her closely as Dís scrapped her potatoes and meat back into the pot hung over the low flames. “You’ll want to build that back up, but don’t use the coal, we don’t have much left.”

“I can do it,” Dís insisted, blowing on the cinders, coaxing them back to life. “I can keep the fire in the forge going without much fuel, Udad taught me.”

“Hmm.”

Dís looked up. She’d passed her mother in height years ago, but with Freya looming over her she felt very small and insignificant. Hastily she got to her feet and gave her supper a jostling with the spoon so it wouldn’t burn. “What’s Thorin doing in the Mountain?”

“Oh, being honored with a banquet for bringing a bunch of starving beggars into their midst, what do you _think?”_ Freya asked scornfully. “Begging them to let us stay, I shouldn’t wonder. Renegotiating the terms of our _occupation,_ as they see it. They want it set down in writing that he shall attempt to pass no laws, levy no taxes, in short, do _nothing_ that his position commands while he’s here. We are to abide by their laws while enjoying none of the benefits of citizenship.”

Freya’s voice was cold and bitter. Dís stirred the potatoes with greater vigor, smashing them with the spoon as she did. 

“Your father would have done better,” she said abruptly. “Curse his hands, but he had some notion of _law._ Thorin bends like a reed in a high wind. All at _Balin’s_ urging, might I add and who is he to advise? Nothing but the son of a dizzy-headed scribe and a spear-carrier.”

Dís had frozen at her mother’s words. She had no idea what she was more shocked by, the insults paid to Thorin and Balin or the fact that her mother had spoken of her father. 

“Idiot girl!” Freya seized the spoon and stirred the pot vigorously. “You’ll ruin it! Ruin your supper _and_ the pot. If you’d been here earlier, you wouldn’t have had to waste our fuel at all, you selfish thing!”

“I’m sorry,” Dís said, shrinking back against the wall. “I’m sorry, Ama, I’ll scrub it - ”

“You’d better,” she said coldly, removing her daughter’s supper and practically flinging the plate in her face. “For I won’t be bothered by it. I think you’ve had quite enough of Hervor, lately. We didn’t settle here for you to gad about with your cousin. There’s _work_ to be done. And don’t you forget, not for one _second_ that this is not permanent. If your brother cannot keep our people in the ruling council’s good graces we’ll be turned out of here in a trice. Do you understand?”

“Aye, ma’am,” she said, swallowing past the lump in her throat. Dís looked down at the lukewarm, half-burned remains of her supper and thought she wasn’t very hungry. But refusing her mother would likely not end well for her, so she sat down at their rickety table to eat. Freya stood by and watched her, drumming her fingers on the table irritably. 

“What is it you and Hervor _do_ that occupies so very much of your time?” she demanded.

“We…” Dís look a massive bite of potatoes, char and all, to prolong her answer. “We talk.”

“Talk?” Freya raised an eyebrow and shook her head. “I can’t imagine what you find to talk about.”

“Just...Ama?” Dís asked, suddenly curious. “Why didn’t you go to the Council with Thorin?”

For a long moment, Freya was silent. Her eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth as if to speak, but closed it again and shook her head. “Finish your supper,” she ordered, then disappeared into her room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Ur family patches things up with hugs, the Durin family slams doors.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** For **striking of a child by a parent with hands and objects** , some **slut-shaming** and **verbal parental abuse.**
> 
> Freya is _nasty_ in this chapter, if you don't want to read about **dysfunctional parent-child relationships** steer clear of this one.

The three-room flat had an unexpected visitor. After Dís and Thorin ate their breakfast and left for the forge there was a knock at the door which Freya answered with some reluctance. She nearly shut it again when she beheld the shiny copper beard, grown out to half-mourning and the long, thin, familiar face that accompanied it; the face was smiling and she had no mind to watch others smile.

“What is it?” Freya asked rudely. Once, as a princess, despite her mood she would have tried for graciousness. Now, not even Irpa could command a polite greeting out of her.

They had been friendly, once. Schoolgirls together, but Irpa had gone one way in life and Freya had gone another. A better way, she thought. After all, what was better, to wed a prince or a merchant? Now, she thought that Irpa might have been the wiser of them and she resented that. Freya loathed being wrong.

“We’re going to market,” Irpa said, pleasantly, despite Freya’s open contempt. “You and I. We might not buy anything, but we’re going to have a look-round.”

Frey only stared at her as if she had forgotten the meaning of the word ‘market.’

“You’ve been cooped up in that flat for ages, if it’s not clean now it never will be,” Irpa continued. “It isn’t good for you. It isn’t good for anyone. Do you want me to do something with your hair?”

That nearly got Irpa a door slammed in her face for her troubles. Freya drew herself up and said, “I’ll fix it myself. Come in if you want.”

Appealing to vanity. What a strange thing to do - and how telling that it should work so well. Freya roughly drew a comb through her hair, braiding it hastily up and back, away from her face, a style more functional than beautiful. Her hair had been beautiful once, but when golden hair went silver it always did so hideously, she thought. Dull, colorless patches streaked through her hair, just as it had her mother’s a century before. Freya pitied Ama then and cursed herself now for being a vain little brat. Did she think that _she_ would never get old? That _she_ would never know heartache?

Of course she hadn’t, Freya reminded herself sourly. She’d married a strapping young prince, after all, so handsome, so intelligent, such a good head on his shoulders. She could spit at the thought. 

“Well, don’t pull it all out,” Irpa said. She’d made a circuit of the room very quickly. There wasn’t much to look at, the walls were light, reflected the sunlight. It hurt her eyes, it was why she’d taken the only proper room in the place, the one without windows. She rather wanted to go back in there now, but Irpa was standing by impatiently. 

“There,” Freya said, tucking a final braid into place. “Acceptable?”

 

“Almost,” Irpa nodded, smiling - always _smiling_ , whatever did she have to smile about? Her husband, chopped to pieces by an orcish scythe, her younger son the worst sort of wastrel - Freya quite resented her and almost turned her out of the house, but that would feel too much like defeat. She’d had quite enough of defeat to last her ‘til the world was made new. 

Scowling, she set forth, locking the door behind them - though, really, what was the point? They had nothing to steal. Let them burn the ugly little building from top to bottom. Just another settlement gone down in ashes. They were well used to that by now. 

Irpa laced an arm around Freya’s elbow, as if they were bosom companions spending a pleasant morning together. There was nothing pleasant about it. The sun was beating down upon them relentlessly, with nary a cloud to diffuse the light. There was birdsong from the trees which made Freya’s scowl deepen; the twittering grated on her ears, the mines were too far away to drown out their screeching in the soothing fall of picks and hammers. The wind blew around them, pressing against her bare throat. Despite the warmth of the sun, Freya wished she was wearing a scarf. 

“Did you know I’ve taken in a lodger?” Irpa asked, as if they’d been chattering away this whole time. 

“No,” Freya replied shortly; she really did not care. Why had she done this? Why had she gone out of doors?

“Well, I have,” Irpa continued. She smiled and winked down at Freya, with all the manner of a young lass sharing secrets. It only soured Freya more on the conversation and she freed her arm from where it was pinned against Irpa’s side. “And not just for the income - he more than pays his way in brightening the place up, as _handsome_ a fellow as was ever Made, just a bit taller than you, broad in the shoulders and chest - a miner, let me tell you, he looks like a boulder - and the brightest golden hair you’ve ever seen. One of these days I’m going to offer to put it up for him, maybe give his poor sore neck a rub…”

“Irpa!” Freya exclaimed, smacking her hard on the arm. The _widowed_ dwarrowdam bore the blow cheerfully, though she’d put some extra force, for Hornbori’s sake, behind it for good measure. “You’re married.”

“Hmm,” she made a contemplative sort of sound in her throat. Didn’t have the ring of a poor ‘dam who was thinking of her brave husband gone to the Halls of their ancestors. It sounded like the wicked plotting of a free dwarrow lass who was thinking of dragging some unsuspecting boy behind a tapestry in the middle of a feast. “Fifty years - half mourning. I think I’m entitled to a bit of hair-stroking and neck-rubbing.”

“You are _not_ ,” Freya whispered firmly since they were in _public_ and she wouldn’t have it known that one of their settlement was a slattern. “Don’t say another word about it. My mother was widowed for over a century, she never even looked at another dwarf after my father fell.”

“Well, she wouldn’t have told you, would she?” Ipra replied, arching a knowing eyebrow. “Especially knowing you’d get so hot about it - never mind, I’m only teasing. He’s _far_ too young from me, barely old enough to put pen to paper and sign a contract. Actually, I don’t think he can write. But that’s alright, he can put a hammer to stone well enough. If he’d only put _his_ hammer - ouch!”

Pinching got her to quiet down better than punching. Unfortunately it also made her squeal and several heads turned in their direction. Freya stared back at them insolently until they went back to their work. 

The light was giving Freya a headache, it always took her ages to adjust to living out of doors after they’d managed to find appropriate accomodations. Those days were long gone; indeed, the place they were living now was just this side of barbaric.

“Does Thorin prefer gloves or mittens?”

Freya blinked. “What?”

“Gloves or mittens? My instincts say ‘gloves,’ but I thought I would check. Then again, a good pair of sturdy socks never go amiss.”

Irpa was speaking. Words were coming out of her mouth and unless Freya had lost all her common speech, they were legitimate words. But she couldn’t make sense of them. “I don’t understand.”

“I want to make him a little present,” Irpa said. “Out of gratitude, it can’t have been easy, all those months negotiating for settlement. And those windows of yours will get a good draught going - mind, I found myself a house of wood, we’ll be frozen in our beds - anyway, that’s _why_ I’m asking, I was going to make a good set of winter things for my lads and thought I ought to do Thorin a good turn. Oh, and little Dís, of course. Not that she’s so little anymore, she’ll be tall as her umad, mark me.”

“I hope not,” Freya said, rolling her eyes. “That lass has paltry enough brains, she doesn’t need to knock what little wit she has askew hitting her head on every doorway from here to the Misty Mountains.”

“Oh, no,” Irpa shook her head, dismissively. As if _she_ knew more about Freya’s daughter than the mother herself. “She’s darling, very bright - ”

“Bright!” Freya snorted. “Aye, I suppose she _does_ take after Sigdís. Can’t read or write the common tongue worth a damn, doesn’t play, doesn’t have a single accomplishment apart from forging. Very like the Queen; all that ‘dam knew was how to kill. No, don’t make her a present, nor Thorin neither. I won’t have them dependent on charity.”

Irpa stopped walking. This time, it was she who shushed Freya; she hadn’t realized how loud she had become. “In the first place, it isn’t charity, it’s a gift - _my_ gift and not for you to accept or refuse. In the second, you’re being absolutely ridiculous. Dís is whip-smart, not learned, maybe, but give the lass some credit.”

“Why?” Freya demanded, feeling too hot all over. She just wanted to lie down. What possessed her to go out of her front door? “What has she done for me? For any of us?”

“She’s all of sixty!” Irpa exclaimed. “What’s she got to do? She’s a child - ”

“She can’t be,” Freya said firmly. “She doesn’t have the right - ”

“The _right?_ That’s nonsense! You’re her mother, you think you’d be her champion, let the lass have a chance to grow up and - ”

“Don’t you _tell_ me how to bring up my children - ”

“Someone has to! And let me tell you one more thing, while we’re here - ”

But whatever Irpa was going to say was lost when they heard a voice from very nearby speaking in the kind of half-whisper, half-shout that was meant to look clandestine, but always attracted an audience. 

“All I’m saying’s I don’t got a use for them Longbeards. They’ll be bad for town, mark me!”

The speaker was a young dwarrowlass, maybe eighty or eighty-five, with Firebeard blood. Her red hair was bright and shiny. It was hard not to look at her, once you’d noticed her. 

“Come Oura,” another girl was sighing, she might have been the sister of the first for their hair was identical in color and texture. “I don’t know as we’ll profit by ‘em, but you’re laying it on awful thick.”

The two were picking over serving pitchers, fingering the painted ornaments that had been enameled over and reflected the sunlight beaming overhead. 

“I’m not!” her Oura cried, offended. “Why just the other day that princess o’theirs comes in with that tarty-looking friend o’hers - ”

“Tarty!” the sister rolled her eyes. “The one who’s a butcher’s daughter? That’s jealousy, plain and true, for she’s a handsome lass. That’s it, then, has she snatch away an admirer o’yours?”

“Never you mind,” Oura flushed deeply at that, the blush mottling her cheeks. “But I was saying, that princess comes in, and does Miss High-and-Mighty have two pennies to rub together? No. She buys her beer on credit and we won’t see a cent of it, mark me.”

“Oh, nonsense! Rubbish, rubbish, everyone’s got a drink off Bildr gratis one time or another! S’not as though he hasn’t plenty to spare…”

Ending their perusal of the jugs, the two sisters moved deeper into the marketplace. Freya stared after them for a moment and then started down the road for the forges. 

Dís had been tapping out a tin lantern and was concentrating so hard on her work that she did not hear her mother come in. She felt her, sure enough, a grip like steel on her arm as she was dragged out of the forge and into the street. She hardly had time to realize it was her mother who’d beset her before Freya slapped her hard across the face.

“Ama!” She cried, but Freya didn’t say a word, just unbelted her coat and grabbed her daughter’s arm. She brought the strap down hard on the back of her hands, then turned them over roughly and struck the palms. 

Dwalin came charging out then, shouting, but Thorin beat him out, getting between his mother and sister, palms raised; he almost took the next blow, but Freya stopped herself short.

“What are you doing?” Thorin asked. His eyes were wide with shock and he heard his sister give a hard, quickly stifled sob behind him. It was the surprise of it more than the pain, which stung, wouldn’t raise welts. Dwarves would beat their children when they misbehaved, but not without cause. He looked his mother over in deep concern; had she...no, no, Freya was as solid in mind as any of them, he couldn’t believe that she acted without reason. He couldn’t. “What’s wrong?”

“Ask _her_ ,” Freya said shortly, breath coming bullishly out her nose in huffs. “Oh, lassie, you wait ‘til you get home tonight and I can get my hands on you properly. Do you think you’re too old for a beating? You think we’ve sunk so low that you can play a beggar and think I won’t have anything to say about it? You’ve never been so wrong - on my _life_ you’ve never been so wrong!”

“Are you mad?” Dwalin asked, running over at last and tucking Dís protectively against his side. She pulled away, wiping at her eyes. “It’s staying in the house that did it, it’s not good for a body to spend time by itself - ”

“Shut your mouth, Dwalin Fundinul,” Freya said warningly. “You’ve more your father’s wits than your mother’s, don’t pretend you have _anything_ to say to me.”

Dwalin drew himself up, fists curling at his sides. “My father had wits enough not to beat a child in broad daylight without cause!”

“And a few licks more on your backside might have done you good,” Freya replied bitterly, replacing her belt with a sneer.

Thorin’s hands were still raised, but now he shifted to block both his sister and his cousin from his mother’s rage; he’d rather take it all on himself. “Ama,” he said quietly. “What’s this about?”

“And of course you don’t know,” Freya growled between clenched teeth. “Can’t stay on top of anything, can you? You are _useless_ , Thorin, utterly useless. Do you know what they’re saying in the streets? How is this _king_ meant to take care of his people if he can’t even control his own sister? Never mind that the sister hasn’t a care in the world for her position, for her people!”

Freya’s eyes were alight with flame, her shoulders heaving. Then, oddly, her eyes filled with tears and her voice came out choked, “How _could_ you?”

Thorin looked at Dís, a helpless expression on his face. The tears fell down his sisters cheeks and when Dwalin tried again to console her, she backed away, folding her arms over her chest. “I wasn’t thinking,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry, I - I didn’t have any money, I forgot to take money. When I went...when I...out. And Víli said that it was alright to get a drink and pay later. But we haven’t been back and I haven’t - ”

“So you’re a thief,” Freya said coldly. 

Dwalin let out a great derisive snort, “Starting a tab’s a crime now?”

“I’ll pay it back!” Dís promised. “It was only a few pennies!”

“Damned right you’ll pay it back,” Freya said. She stepped around Thorin and hissed up at Dís, “You’ll pay it back and you’ll change your rounds quick. From your bedroom to work and back again. That’s all you’ll do, your brother and I are all you’ll see - I don’t know who this _Víli_ is, but you’re never to speak to _anyone_ not of Erebor again. I forbid it!”

“Aye, Ama,” Dís said lowly, her eyes on the ground. “Whatever you say. I’m sorry.”

“That changes nothing,” Freya snapped. “Thoughtless, that’s what you are. And now we’ll all suffer for it.”

She whirled on her heel and turned back only to say, “Back to the flat at sunset. If it’s full dark when next I see you...oh, it’ll go badly for you, lass. That’s a promise.” 

Dís kept her word. Even before the sun had dipped below the horizon she was back on the doorstep. She was silent, kept her head down, walked around Freya without a word and sat in her room. If her mother heard her sobs from behind the closed door, she paid them not a moment of notice. 

Thorin followed shortly thereafter. He saw the two plates his mother set out for supper and sighed. “You’re not setting her a place, then?” 

“Not with us,” she said simply, ladling stew that was more bread and potatoes than anything else into a bowl for him. “I don’t keep company with liars and thieves.”

“Irpa came running,” Thorin said, not sitting down. “After you left. She told us what you heard. It...it was two drinks, Ama. I went back to the pub and paid them off myself. It was hardly anything.”

“Don’t defend her,” Freya replied, sitting down, but she didn’t eat, just stirred her stew without looking at her son. “I won’t listen. I should not _have_ to listen to this. If you don’t see the problem then you’re stupider than I’ve ever given you credit for being. You haven’t your father’s brains, never have, but I liked to think you had my sense. I see I was wrong.”

“You were,” Thorin said, suddenly heated. He gripped his hair as if he meant to pull the lot out. “What you did - Ama, Dís didn’t do anything wrong!”

“You must’ve thought she was,” Freya said. She tried to lift a spoonful to her lips, but her hands were shaking too badly for it. “Else you would have told me what she got up to nights. Passing time with Hervor, indeed.”

“She was with Hervor,” Thorin said shortly. “And some new friends she’s made - ”

“Friends,” Freya spat with venom. “What right has she to friends?”

“What _right_?” Thorin asked incredulously. “Listen to yourself! It’s been so bad for so long, shouldn’t she be happy?”

“No!” Freya shouted, throwing her spoon down with violence. “No! She shouldn’t. _None_ of us should be. We lost our right to happiness when we lost our home! Imagine it, you can, can’t you, that girl could become complacent here with friends and her cheap beer. Is that what you want? Forsaking all our legacy for paltry western pleasures? I won’t have it. I won’t.”

Then she fled away, leaving her untouched supper behind. Away, behind the door of her room which she slammed shut behind her. Alone in the kitchen, Thorin crumbled over the table, gripping the sides until he heard it creak. Then he let it go; for the same reason his mother only threw the spoon and not the plate. Even in a rage, they could not afford to be careless. 

Thorin blew out a long breath, gathering himself. He picked up the two bowls and their spoons and took them into the bedroom he shared with his sister. 

Dís was lying on her stomach, still crying into her pillow. Thorin lay a hand on the back of her head. “This is my fault.”

She shook her head, but did not say anything. She did not shake him off either, so Thorin only rubbed soothing circles on her back. “Eat, please. You haven’t had anything all day.”

Dís shook her head again, burying her face in her pillow, crying harder than ever. Thorin sat next to her until his head fell into his other hand and both of their suppers went cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Irpa. Poor Dis. Poor Thorin. Poor Dwalin. ~~Poor Freya.~~


	12. Chapter 12

It was a dismal few days at the forge. They worked largely in silence and when Víli came by to pay his morning cordialities, Dís took her mother's words to heart; she spoke not at all to him, but the second she heard his merry whistling, busied herself at the back of the shop, armed with her hammer to block out the sound of his voice or else she volunteered to fetch water from the stream, whether or not it had been requested.

"Ey," Víli whispered over the stall when the only glimpse he got of Dís was the back of her tunic flapping in the breeze she made running out the side door. "I paid her an insult? Can't think on what I done, but I'm sore sorry whatever it is."

Thorin didn't reply, he just shrugged, but Dwalin heaved an enormous sigh and shook his head, "Nah, you're alright. It's only - "

Thorin cleared his throat loudly, obviously. Dwalin ignored him. 

"It's ONLY," he continued in a louder voice than before, but Thorin jerked his head toward the anvil and grunted, "Back to work."

When Thorin's back was turned, Dwalin worked the bellows with one hand and signed to Víli with the other, _No insult. Their mother unwell. Think not on it._

"Oh!" Víli exclaimed, eyes widening as he looked between Dwalin and Thorin. Nodding his head with a knowing eagerness he signed back, _Thanks. Tell them I will think on her. Serious?_

 _Very_ , Dwalin replied. The corners of Víli's mouth turned down and for an instant, he looked as if he might cry, but he rallied himself and bid them both good-morning, but in a more subdued tone than ever Dwalin had heard him speak. 

"Freya's done the impossible," he said aloud when the miner was gone. "She managed to wind down _that_ barrel-organ. I suppose there's a talent in that, but not one I'd ever want to have a share in."

"Stop," Thorin said, gritting his teeth and rubbing his fist over his eyes, like a tired child. "Just stop. I don't want to hear it, just leave her alone."

"Leave _her_ alone?" Dwalin asked incredulously. _"Her?_ I don't see why I should, given that she never gives pause before she goes in on you."

"Well, she doesn't _deserve_ it as I do," Thorin replied. "Come on, back to work, there are orders to fill and - "

"Does Dís deserve it?" Dwalin demanded. He was standing over Thorin with his arms folded, scowling for all he was worth. It was a protective sort of stance, one Dwalin often adopted around Thorin, even when they were tiny little things, too small to reach countertops. When Thorin was younger, he liked the feeling of Dwalin looking after him, like having a big brother of his own. Now, though, he found his proximity stifling. "Does she?"

"No," Thorin growled, stepping away. "But Ama wouldn't have started in on her if I looked after her better - " 

"Her idea of 'looking after,' seems to involve a leash and a shake, keeping her chained to your kitchen table, lest she stray too far and run too much of a chance of enjoying herself!"

Dwalin was _loud,_ that was something he'd inherited directly from Fundin, including his stature and his prowess on the battlefield. What had Thorin taken from his parents? Nothing of value. He had not his father's mind, nor his mother's cunning. He had not his grandfather's caring nor his grandmother's battle-acumen. What was he but a failure, from beginning to end. He had slayed the Pale Orc, as he was continually reminded, but too late. Everything he did was too little and too late to matter much. And now Dwalin was shouting at him for he was wrong, wrong, wrong again. 

"Stop," Thorin said again, biting back the 'please,' that lurked behind the word. "What difference does it make?"

Dwalin ran a hand through his hair, snorting in disgust. Disgust at Thorin? Well, why not, he was disgusting. 

"I'd say it makes a great difference to her, by the _Maker_ , Thorin, why are you so willing to throw yourself under the cart so no one else gets trodden on?"

Thorin drove his hands into his eyes again, exhaling hard. "You don't understand - "

"Oh, but I do," Dwalin said hotly. "I've watched her - and your father, worst of all, but she's more than a match for him in cruelty, I can see why they married - I've watched them _both_ chide you to misery time and again for a hundred years! I'm sick of it! And you just _take_ it, it's - "

"What?" Thorin shot back, arms folding over his own chest, shoulders hunched defensively. "Pathetic? Not the actions of a king, is that what you're trying to say?"

Dwalin was always stronger than him. That's the way it always had been, bigger and stronger and better at nearly _everything_. Was this the culmination of his disgust at Thorin's weakness bubbling over? Well, let him try; his opinion of Thorin could be no lower than Thorin's own knowledge of his shortcomings. Let him rail. Let him scorn. There could be nothing he could say about Thorin that Thorin had not thought, twice as harsh and twice as often, about himself. 

"It's _sad_ ," Dwalin finished, taking Thorin aback. "It makes me miserable for you! Do you know how much it hurts to stand back and watch someone you care about _take_ that sort of shite day in and day out and not say a word about it? I'm at the end of my rope, I've got half a mind to storm over there and - "

"Don't!" Thorin exclaimed, recovered from his surprise enough to rally a rebuttal. "Don't you _dare!_ What if it were you, eh? What if I wanted to go and give your parents the hard side of my tongue?"

Dwalin had the audacity to laugh. "You wouldn't - you _couldn't_. What could you have to say to them?"

"What my mother said, or something like," Thorin said, falling back on the strategems he'd been taught as an apprentice warrior, _Strike back as hard as they strike you, or harder, if you can._ "Tell them that their younger son's respect for his elders is - "

"Respect!" Dwalin spat, furious. "Oh, aye, I respect 'em enough. For getting us from one end of the continent to the other. For seeing our people through some awful times. Not a bad prince and princess, I'll grant, but as parents...as parents they're _awful."_

"No, no, don't....you can't say that," Thorin said, hackles up, fists clenched. "What else were they to do? I was the one who disappointed them! I was the one who was never good enough! You can't expect them to...to _praise_ me for falling short, you can't expect them to have been _satisfied_ with me when I fail every day!"

"You don't!" Dwalin shouted in his face, going very red. His hands too were balled hard and it seemed to take all of his rapidly unwinding self control to keep from reaching out and giving Thorin a hard shake. "That's what they've stuck in your head! There's nothing wrong with you, there's something wrong with _them_ and they've rotted your mind - _poisoned_ it with their talk!"

"No!" Thorin denied again, forcefully. If he didn't get away, he'd have struck Dwalin so he walked out, just as his sister had done, but his hands were empty and Dwalin followed, hot on his heels, just as he always had done. Thorin whirled round and backed him up against the wall of the smithy. "We can't all of us have parents who thought we were mithril-wrought can we? You don't know, you don't understand - how _can_ you? Your parents weren't...they weren't like others, you were _lucky_! The rest of us have to _earn_ our parents' love, it's not something that's just...given out for free! There's nothing free in this world, nothing _owed_ to anyone. _That's_ what they taught me - "

"They taught you wrong!" Dwalin did grab Thorin then, held hard to his shoulders, forced him to look him in the eye. "Children shouldn't have to _earn_ love, that's ridiculous! It's _mad_ , Thorin. I'm sorry you got dealt an awful hand, but it's nothing you've done, your parents are _arseholes!"_

Thorin hit him, then. Punched him so hard that Dwalin's head cracked into the wall of the smithy, but he didn't fall. He reared back and hit Thorin just as hard and then the two of them were on the ground. This was no friendly scuffle, meant to blow off steam or liven the blood during a night of frivolity. Thorin struck hard and strong and so did Dwalin. Thorin hit him with all the pent-up rage and frustration and jealousy that had been simmering in his heart for years. Hit him for every affectionate embrace Dwalin was gifted with in public, every fond kiss, every unforced, 'I love you,' every easily-won bit of praise that came to him so simply, so readily. 

And Dwalin hit him back, just as hard. For every time Thorin was given a compliment and brushed it off. For every time Thorin nodded his head and accepted his father's criticism as if it was the word of the Maker Himself. For every time his mother blamed him for every little thing that was amiss in her life and Thorin apologized and took all the troubles of the world down upon his shoulders, as if all burdens were his to carry. 

They fought until they were both exhausted, not physically, but it was a tiredness that went deeper than their muscles and bones that made them pull their punches and eventually rise from the ground, each under his own power. Dwalin had a black and rapidly swelling eye. Thorin's nose was bleeding and his mouth was bloody; he spit and a tooth came out in his hand. 

"I'm going to get this crammed back in," he said, breathing hard, not looking at Dwalin as he straightened his shoulders and turned toward the village. 

"Not going to wash up?" Dwalin asked. Thorin's tunic was torn, grass had stained it up one side and his face was a sight. 

"No," Thorin replied curtly. "Let them see; let them know what a disgrace I really am."

Dwalin almost hit him again, but what would have been the point? He watched him go, swallowing past a lump in his throat, then went back into the smithy and shoved his head in an obliging bucket of water, wiping away all the blood, dirt, and tears that started slipping from his eyes just as soon as Thorin's back was turned.

Dís came back later, having dallied long enough by the stream that she missed the spectacle. She could hardly ignore the aftermath and almost dropped her bucket when she saw Dwalin's face. 

"Looks worse than it is," he quickly reassured her.

"What happened?" Dís exclaimed, running over to check on him. "Where's Thorin? Did you both get roughed up? Was it...bandits?"

"We both got roughed up, by each other it's - ouch, lass, don't prod," he said, wincing away when she poked a bump on his head. "We had a fight, it'll blow over."

"You had a fight?" Dís asked, disbelieving. Thorin and Dwalin never ever fought, or so she thought. They were like two sides of the same coin. "Was it my - "

"Don't you start," Dwalin said warningly. Then he sat down heavily on a stool and beckoned her over. Dís stood by and he rested an arm around her shoulder and kissed her head with the side of his mouth that wasn't as swollen as the other. "You're not to blame. He's not to blame. And, accounting for self-interest, neither am I. There's one soul to pin the blame for the past few days on and we both know who it is and I'm not going to say anything else about it as I don't need two black eyes."

Dís bit her lip and looked at the ground. She'd been feeling awful, going home every evening with only her mother's disapproval for company. She'd not even been to see Hervor, trying to the uttermost to fulfill her sentence of isolation. It was a lonely, miserable life she'd had recently; just as her mother wanted - just as her mother thought things should be. 

"I wouldn't hit you, even if you did say it," she confided quietly. "I don't know - maybe that means I need a black eye, to mind my manners."

Dwalin sighed again, hugely. The breath gusted by Dís's ear in a woosh. "You know it's not right, what she's done and said, eh? It's not fair to you. Lass, no matter what your Ama thinks about it, you haven't done a thing wrong. Just because she's decided she won't have another pleasant thought in her head from now 'til the re-Making of the world, it doesn't mean you've got to keep her company in that...darkness."

"It doesn't _feel_ right," she admitted softly. "Just...She's my Ama. I don't want to make her more unhappy."

"Listen," Dwalin said seriously, tilting her chin up to look at him. "There was a 'dam I knew - well, I still know her, I suppose, but I wouldn't if I could help it - anyway. She could give your Ma a run for misery. She made up her mind ages ago not to be happy about anything or anyone. Now, you and I both know folk about who like complaining - a red-haired cousin of ours comes to mind - but anyhow. This 'dam doesn't even _like_ to whinge and moan. She's the unhappiest dwarf I've ever seen. And she makes herself that way. She _chooses_ to see the bad and not the good. No matter what anyone does for her, she'll get no pleasantness out of it. And there was...another dwarrowdam who tried her best to please her - this second 'dam being her daughter. But there was nothing for it and so the first 'dam's unhappiness started making this _other_ 'dam unhappy. And it wasn't right. It wasn't fair. Your Ama might be in a bad way, but it's wrong of her to try and drag you down with her. Understand?"

Dís thought she did, or at least a part of it, "But I don't think people can...sometimes they can't help being unhappy. And there's an awful lot to be sad about."

"That's right," Dwalin agreed. "But that's all the more reason to try to grab up every little bit of happiness you can get - your friends. Being with them makes you happy, eh?"

"Not happier than being with you and Thorin and - " she started, but Dwalin smiled and patted her arm.

"Well, of course not," he replied, "but as far as being second best..."

"Aye," she agreed at last. "I like being with them. They...make me happy."

"Right," Dwalin nodded. "And does it hurt anyone else, going down to the pub with them? Did it hurt anyone, your two-drink tab? _Really_ hurt anyone? We're still here, aren't we? No one's forced us out. No one's gone running through the streets shouting, 'Little Dís started a tab at the pub! It's an insult not to be borne! Shame! Shame on the line of Durin! Shame on their ancestors!'"

Dís tried not to smile, but she couldn't help it; Dwalin's impression of Broadbeam speech was awful, but in a very funny way. "No."

With a satisfied smile, Dwalin went on, "There you are. So, your friends make you happy. Having such friends hurts no one. And as we've just established that it's no crime to want to _be_ happy...well, where are we, then?"

"You sound like Balin at lessons," Dís informed him. Dwalin shut his eyes and groaned as if she'd punched him, which made her laugh. "Then...it's alright to go on being friends with them - but what will Ama say?"

"Lass, she'll say everything's terrible, whether or not you're friends with them," he replied. "Think. You've stayed home every night for nigh on a week. Does she seem happier to you?"

"No," Dís admitted. Honestly, she seemed worse than ever. 

"There you are. And that's what Thorin and I fought about," Dwalin concluded. "He thinks that if he's just as unhappy as your Ma, that makes things better. Worse, Thorin thinks it's _he_ who deserves to be unhappy most of all and he's wrong."

"Of course he is!" Dís exclaimed. "He works so hard, he deserves to be happy most of all! If Frerin..."

Dís trailed off and caught her breath. If Frerin was here, she was sure everything would be different. He could almost always make their mother smile, even when she was very angry. He never heeded their father when he was at his worst for chiding and scolding. If Frerin was here, everything would be better. She wasn't much of a substitute. 

"If Frerin were here, no doubt there would have been twice as many rows as there have been," Dwalin predicted. "I'll wager he's in the Halls shaking his head at the lot of us, thinking we could have gone off on each other in a way that was more entertaining for him to watch. 

"He could have made - " Dís began, but Dwalin put his hand over her mouth to stop her talking. 

"No one can make anyone feel any particular way," he said. "You're in charge of your own self - the best you can do is try not to make the rest of the world feel worse off for having been about you."

Dís nodded, it was an awful lot to think about. "Where's Thorin?"

"Gone to have a tooth set back in," Dwalin said, digging around his his pockets for change. "Go on and get something from the bake shop - and a pudding for him. Something soft."


	13. Chapter 13

"I want to you take some sausage bread over to them Longbeards," Sayra announced to Thyra just as dusk was beginning to settle over the Mountains.

Thyra blinked. She'd not seen Dís in nearly a week, which was odd as she and her kinsmen had taken to coming by for their noontime meal practically every working day. When the lass did come in, she seemed different somehow. She'd always been shy, in the way of her people, but now she seemed downright skittish, hardly smiled and responded to any attempts at small talk with polite, but brief answers.

"I don't know as they're so fond o'our wares, Ma," Thyra said. "Nor our company, I were talking to Víli and he said - "

"Víli an' Bofur are the most productive gossips as ever bent an ear toward whispering," Sayra dismissed her concerns. "Let me say it again since you gone hard o'hearing: you'll be taking a bread over to the forge, and quick. You don't want to miss 'em."

"Aye, ma'am," Thyra replied obediently. "Just so."

She had no idea why it kept happening, but just as it had been the first time she brought a wee gift to the Longbeard forge, the only occupant was Mister Thorin. When he turned after hearing her approach, she was a bit taken aback - it looked as if her mother might have some kind of all-seeing power. Certainly he needed a bite of bread if he'd taken to eating his handkerchief. 

"Evenin', Mister Thorin," she said, setting the bread upon the counter. "Me Ma thought as - "

"I can't take it," he said, removing the handkerchief, glancing at it briefly, looking for blood. "Thank your mother, but...no, just give it over, I'll bring it to my cousins."

"Ah, I _said_ to her as you wasn't fond of it," Thyra sighed. Well, as long as she came back empty-handed, her mother couldn't chide her too much over not having done what she was set out to do. 

"That's not it," Thorin said shortly. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he looked momentarily so sad that Thyra almost lunged over the counter to give him an impulsive hug. Mister Thorin really wasn't as old as all _that_ she realized. Short-cut beards she associated with widows and suchlike, but he couldn't be any older than Bifur. A hundred, if he was a day. 

"Well..." Thyra began, rocking back on her heels. She really ought to go. It really wasn't any of her business...but she couldn't help herself, it was the sisterliness in her; she couldn't abide watching a body put itself through a spot of misery without at least asking if they wanted some help or a friendly ear. "What is it, if you don't mind me asking?"

"It's nothing," Thorin replied quickly, compulsively. It was strange, most dwarves would merely say, 'I'm alright,' just to get one off their backs. 'It's nothing,' had a different flavor to it. It meant that _something_ was wrong, only the dwarf didn't want anyone to make a fuss.

"Too much clove?" she asked, cocking her head to the side and peering up at him. 

"What?" Thorin asked, confused.

"Bad joke," Thyra reassured him. Poor thing, she thought. Answers every question like he's standing before a judge. "Are you alright, though? You and Dís and your kin? Hasn't seen you so much of an evening, and more's the pity too, s'no easy thing, finding good company amongst strangers."

"Strangers," Thorin repeated and Thyra's heart sank at the dull tone in his voice. She'd said something wrong, she knew she had. Ought to have kept her tongue in her head and not prattled on as if he was one of her little brothers who was too proud to have a skinned knee bounded up. "Aye, well, we are that. Good evening, Miss. I'll be sure to pass your gift along to those who can enjoy it."

The handkerchief was back in his mouth and Thorin resumed dousing the fire and hanging up his tools. Thyra watched him for a minute before she realized she was staring and turned away, plodding back to the shop. Summer was coming upon them, but she folded her arms over her chest; she felt cold all of a sudden.

She was nearly home when she found herself being hailed in the street - by Hervor, of all dwarves. She did not stop by the shop with Dís's regularity, so she'd not been missed as much. Still, it was heartening that at least one Longbeard was seeking her out and she stopped, smiling gratefully for the interruption in her travels. "Evenin'! D'you, I just come from your...cousin's? You and Thorin's cousins, eh? I can't keep none o'you straight."

"Cousins, aye, on my father's side," Hervor said impatiently. "Would that we weren't, Auntie Freya's caused such trouble! It's what I came to see you about, I just wanted to tell you that you haven't offended anyone...if you were worried about offending anyone. Actually, I ought to have asked first, but the thing of it is, that Thorin especially - and he gets this from his mother - can be just awful, rude as unthrown pot and someone the great big lump can make you think that _you're_ the one who's done a wrong!"

Thyra was quick to reassure Hervor that she hadn't been losing any sleep over Dís's absenting herself from get-togethers, though she was wondering if all was well among them. The comment about Thorin she ignored entirely; her mother wouldn't want her gossiping in the street, like certain miners of their acquaintance. 

"Oh, mark me, _nothing_ is well in that household," Hervor said, lacking Sayra's sensitivity toward prattling on about the lives of others in the middle of the high street. "Auntie Freya pitched an absolute snit when she found out I'd been taking Dís to the pub and now I'm not to see her unless Auntie Freya's about or my father's about, which is ridiculous since I wasn't doing the lass a harm - actually, I came to see whether or not _you_ wanted a drink. Because I need one and I don't want to go in alone."

"Let me ask me Ma, if she gives her say-so, I'll be out in a trice," Thyra said, hurrying into the bakery. Sayra might object to gossiping in the street, but gossiping in the pub wasn't bad form, it was practically a tradition. 'Auntie Freya,' eh? That had to be the Queen - and how strange to think of her that way...then again, Thyra wasn't rightly sure that she'd thought much on her at all. Actually, she wasn't sure she'd ever _seen_ her before. Granted the village wasn't tiny and there were an awful lot of settlers come to stay, but the foreigners were generally easy to spot, with their short beards and sad eyes. 

Sayra _did_ give her say-so, and Thyra hung up her apron, dusted flour off her hair and joined Hervor as soon as she was presentable - well, presentable enough. Heads turned in their direction as they walked and it didn't take an archer to spot which of them was drawing the notice. It wasn't quite between-shifts time, when the pub would flood with folk going into or coming out of the mines, mills, and shops, so they found a quiet corner all to themselves. 

"Mister Thorin did seem a mite...melancholy," Thyra said, treading carefully. 

Hervor rolled her eyes and drank deeply from her mug, "He didn't shout at you, did he? I'll give him a knock in they eye and give him something to get angry about."

"No!" Thyra said, shocked at the idea that he _could_ shout. Every time she'd been in his presence, Thorin was practically meek; quiet, respectful, even seemed a little nervous that day he'd taken Bifur his supper. "Nay, not a cross word from him. Only said as he couldn't take a loaf o'bread, but he'd give it over to his cousins as could."

"Taking bread out of their mouths now," Hervor snorted. "She's Made of scraps from the Maker's table, sometimes, really. Only they _listen_ to her, that's the bit that lights a fire under me. She's got the most obedient lad and lass a mother could ask for and she _knows_ it and uses it to her best advantage. Dís is just a girl, but _Thorin!_ Not only has he been of age twenty years, he's King Under the Mountain! And he ought to cast off his mother's wishes - well, when they're _ridiculous_ , I mean."

Thyra held her tongue, reluctant to point out the silliness of her consigning Dís to the status of 'girl' when she herself was not yet of age. Then again, Thyra had only just come of age herself, so they were all rubies from one cart. "They must love her, you know, she _is_ their mother...I s'pose we all thinks our Mas can come over forceful sometimes, without meaning to."

"Oh, she means it," Hervor affirmed grimly. "She knows _exactly_ what she’s about. She wasn’t always so bad, but my mother always said - and Ama was the kindest Lady at court, never had a hard word for _anyone_ \- she said that Freya could be cold as ice. It’s not natural, mother to her child.”

Thyra only licked her lips and nodded, looking away a little embarrassed. Hervor, a fine Lady as well - naturally, she would be, cousin to the princess and all. And her mother gone. She didn’t bother asking when she’d passed, it must’ve been when the Mountain fell, though Hervor’s beard was still short and not grown out for half-mourning - that was for her brother, dead in the War of Orcs and Dwarves. Little as she was inclined to speak ill of dwarves she did know, neither did she think she could contradict her assessment of Dís and Thorin’s mother.

“How old is Thorin?” she asked when she felt confident enough to speak again. 

“Hmm,” Hervor hummed thoughtfully and tapped her fingers on the table. “He was...five years above Heidrek, so he’s ninety-nine. He’ll be a hundred just after Durin’s Day this year.”

“Name Day coming up, then,” Thyra said, trying to turn the conversation in a happier direction, but Hervor shook her head.

“I’ll bet you a shilling he doesn’t want _anything_ done,” she sighed. “Bet you a shilling he won’t take a single present, nor smile at a single well-wish. Poor Thorin, I say, but you know, he brings a good quart of misery on himself, he just thinks of the bad all the time...not that I _blame_ him, but you have to try, don’t you?”

 

Thyra just shrugged; again, she felt she didn’t know Thorin well enough to comment. She couldn’t imagine what they’d all suffered, homeless and wandering these years. And as King, he had everyone’s troubles to worry about, not just his own. No wonder he never smiled. 

“Evenin’, lassies!” Bofur cried, scampering over to grab a seat by them. Thyra smiled at him, but her heart wasn’t really in it. She wanted to know more about their neighbors, she’d grown very fond of Dís and wished there was something she could do to cheer the lass. All the sausage bread in the world couldn’t do much to make up for a heavy heart. 

“Evening,” Hervor said, somewhat glumly.

“Not you too!” Víli, never far behind Bofur, sat heavily beside her with a half-drained mug in his hand. “Something gone wrong amongst your people? Anything can do? Only it’s just your cousins seem awfully down.”

Hervor shook her head and drank deep from her mug. “All out, I’m getting another, anyone need topping off?”

Bofur did and he set off with her toward the bar, leaving Víli and Thyra alone together. The former leaned closer so that the ends of his beard were trapped between his belly and the tabletop. “Everything alright with them? Dwalin says their mother took ill.”

“Ill?” Thyra whispered, glancing at Hervor. “That’s not how I heard it - this stays between us, now, eh?”

 

Víli pounded his fist once over his heart and nodded. 

“As Hervor says their Ma’s alright in body, s’her mind that’s the trouble. Being awful strict with Dís most of all, saying as how she isn’t ‘lowed to come to the pub nights. Dunno if she reckons we’re bad company, but that’s why she and her brother’ve been so dour of late. That’s just how she tells it, neither Dís nor Thorin said a word about it.”

Víli leaned back in his seat, looking thoughtful. “Ah. Oh. Well, I thinked - nah, nevermind that. D’you know, I s’pose we’re to blame, a bit.”

“How?” Thyra asked, slightly affronted. She’d certainly been nothing but kind to them since their wagons pulled into town. She didn’t know why the Queen ought to object to her daughter’s new friends, unless it was as Hervor said, she had a contrary nature. 

“Well, we hasn’t gone round to say, ‘How d’you do,’ has we?” Víli pointed out. “Gone down the smithy oft enough, but not the house. Never give her a good-morrow, nor any such? No wonder she thinks we’re not worth passing the night with.”

He did have a bit of a point. Even if the Queen hardly set foot out of doors, it wasn’t very neighborly to refuse to pay one’s respects to a friend - and she did think of Dís as a friend - to a friend’s mother. Why, she’d even become acquainted with Hervor’s father, a butcher who’d set up shop close to the bakery. He knew all of the Eastern rites for the butchery of animals and her father had been keen on getting to know him, that way the Longbeards would know they hadn’t anything to fear from eating improperly slaughtered beasts in their steak and kidney pies. 

“Think that’ll help?” she asked. “Going over and bidding her good day?”

 

“Can’t hurt, can it?” Víli asked. “I’ll do it meself, on the morrow, first thing. No use interrupting their supper, is there?”

The more Víli spoke, the more convinced Thyra became that a bit of common courtesy would go a long way in this situation. After all, Dís was young still and Thorin was so busy. What mother wouldn’t be leery of their child making friends with dwarves she herself had never met? Still didn’t account for her spending so much time by her lonesome - as if she didn’t _want_ to meet anyone - but could be she was shy. Hadn’t Víli said as much about the ‘dam he was lodging with?

As if in answer to her thoughts, he leaned across the table again, whispering, “I think them Longbeards is hard on their own. Me landlady’s a diamond an’ her sons’re alright, really. Aye, they get to a bit of fussing now and again, but who don’t?”

“You,” Thyra said flatly. “You’re the easy-goingest fellow West of the Misty Mountains.”

Víli just laughed at that, “Nah, I can get fussed same as anyone - only I’m particular ‘bout what I get fussed over. I’ll pay her a call on the morrow, say we’re all fond o’her kin and only wants to make ‘em feel comfortable an’ such. She can’t hardly object to that, eh?”

“Can’t, no, I don’t see how,” Thyra agreed. And if there was ever a dwarf who could smooth some ruffled feathers and file out rough edges, it was Víli. No doubt Dís’d be in the shop again by the afternoon with her usual smiles. "D'you know Thorin's Name Day's a-coming in winter? A hundred!"

"Muhudel!" Víli grinned. _"That_ ought to do 'em all some good. Two big parties in a row - _three_ for there's a certain lass I know as is turning seventy-five this year!"

"Soon, eh, Thyra?" Bofur interjected, sitting down. "Don't ask me what I got you as I don't know meself."

"Your Name Day's coming?" Hervor asked, her voice deliberately calm. "Muhudel Mahal, seventy-five's a big year."

"Aye, just so, it'll be a big party," Thyra said, wasting no time at all before she said, "An' I hope t'see you and yours about! It'll be the night o'the Midsummer celebration for the Men in the valley. Worked out like that, so's we won't be starting in 'til after sundown, it's a busy day at the bakery."

"I can imagine," Hervor said, contemplatively. _" I'll_ be there, only it's coming on so soon, I can't say the same for my cousins."

"I've got a good feeling 'bout them, don't you worry," Víli said, leaning back and draining his beer. "I'll see 'em dancing on Midsummer - ey! Who wants to make a wager?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Isn't it nice to have an optimist around?


	14. Chapter 14

Dwalin certainly knew how to get a point across. From rattling the walls when he slammed the door coming into the flat, to stomping his way across the two rooms he rented with his brother (and back again since he had long legs and thus could not stomp quite as much as he might prefer, trekking from one wall to the other), to dropping his weapons and tools onto his trunk one at a time with a loud thud - well, when a knife hit the trunk by the hilt and bounced up high enough to nearly cut his brother’s nose off, Balin thought he might as well inquire as to whether or not anything was wrong. 

“No,” he said - no, that wasn’t accurate, he _huffed_ and it was then that Balin looked up and saw the black eye. 

“Ah,” he said, scrubbing a hand over his face wearily. “Well, then. I’ll assume the other one came off rather worse.”

“Nah, it was an even match,” Dwalin replied shortly. He then banged his way through the kitchen cupboards, though he knew well that he’d find nothing more than a few cups of flour, a flask of oil and some butter that was just this side of rancid.

Balin closed his eyes and counted backwards from ten. “You realize this puts a bit of pressure on Thorin, don’t you?”

“Nah,” Dwalin said, shaking his head and shutting the cupboard. 

Balin inhaled deeply and started counting backward again, this time from twenty-five. Contrary to popular belief, Dwalin was actually very bright. Unfortunately, he had something of a reputation to uphold since the battle at the gates of Moria and feigning idiocy evidently came along with it. He ought to have known it’d never work on his own brother. “Dwalin - ”

“Ah, stop it,” Dwalin rolled his eyes and pitched himself backwards onto his bed, causing the wood to protest loudly. “Leave off that _tone_ , would you?”

“What tone?” Balin asked, biting his tongue to keep him from grinding his teeth. 

_“That_ one,” Dwalin said, speaking to the ceiling. “The courtly, ‘If I might suggest, my lord - ‘ I know you, remember? You’re not half so careful and patient as you pretend to be.”

“And you’re not half so st- so...reckless as _you_ pretend to be,” Balin shot back. “Who’d you hit?”

“Thorin.”

It took Balin a minute for his mind to register just what his ears had heard. _Thorin?_ Dwalin had gotten into a fight with _Thorin?_

Certainly the two of them had sparred together or enjoyed a friendly brawl here and there over the years, but they never resulted in black eyes, the likes of which Dwalin was sporting. Nor was his brother likely to stomp and sigh and carry on in the aftermath. 

“What happened?” he asked, trying and failing to sound casually inquisitive. In truth, he was burning to know. Fights between his brother and their cousin were as rare to behold as mithril, he couldn’t help being curious. He also couldn’t help wondering if anyone had seen them. That was just what they needed, for some Broadbeam busybody to spy the king of the Longbeards tussling with one of his own lords. How could they be expected to live in peace with their neighbors if the king could not keep peace amongst his own family?

“Nothing,” Dwalin said shortly. “We had an argument. It’s over. We both got a bit bloody.”

“When and where?” Balin demanded, tamping down the urge to raise up and loom over Dwalin in the way he could only do when his brother was lying down. It turns out the weight of his stare was enough to discomfit his brother, he turned over and faced the wall. 

“At the forge, this morning - ah, it doesn’t matter, it’s over now, I said. We’re not like to do it again.”

“But _why?”_

Dwalin muttered something incomprehensible, but Balin thought he caught the last word and drew himself up, indignant at being sworn at when all he was trying to do was make an honest inquiry as to whether or not the two of them realized they were jeopardizing their people’s occupation of the Blue Mountains by engaging in childish dramatics in public. 

“What?” he asked sharply. 

“I might’ve called his parents arseholes,” Dwalin grumbled. “Might’ve been my fault. But it doesn’t mean I was _wrong.”_

There weren’t numbers enough to count backward from to cool Balin’s rising temper. Abruptly, he rose and went to the door, wrestling with his better instincts all the while. His better instincts lost when his hand fell upon the door handle. 

“You’re not _actually_ an idiot,” Balin said angrily as he wrenched the door open. “But sometimes you play the role a bit too well.”

Dwalin wasn’t the only one in the family who could slam doors to make a point. The hinges rattled so much that the door bashed against the frame and then swung open again. Balin kept walking; if Dwalin wanted his privacy he could close it himself. 

Brilliant, he thought miserably as he made his way to the street, with no clear goal in mind. Just brilliant. Not only had the pair of them brawled in the open air, Dwalin had insulted his king’s parents and loudly too since Dwalin never did anything _quietly._

A tiny voice in the back of Balin’s mind whispered that, as Dwalin said, he wasn’t exactly _wrong._ But there was a world of difference between holding an impolite opinion and expressing it loudly enough to get a punch in the eye. And when talking of kings and queens...Balin could have given both Thorin _and_ Dwalin a thrashing for what they’d done if he wasn’t sure it would make a bad situation worse. Someone had to keep their head and, as ever, the role had fallen to him.

Oh, but he was bitter. Thráin had run off - he had _always_ run off, from everything, for years. He got that trait from his mother, only the Queen came back to Erebor with a fresh kill for their troubles. Thráin had merely forsaken his people and his duty, leaving all of the responsibilities he wanted to avoid to fall upon his wife and son. And, it seemed Freya was choosing her husband’s way. No, she’d not gone anywhere, not as such, but Balin could not remember the last time she had joined himself and Thorin in the interior of the Mountain to beg for more scraps from their hosts. It had been weeks, easily. 

_You can’t rely on anyone,_ he thought, as he often did in his darkest moments. _Whether they will or no, everyone leaves, in the end. Everyone disappoints you._

It was a deep-down certainty that ate into one’s bones and turned one’s thoughts black as night. A certainty that, Balin knew, Thorin did not have. It made the lad vulnerable. Balin marked the hesitation when he spoke, the unease he exhibited when he was called ‘king.’ It wasn’t modesty. It was uncertainty. Uncertainty because he knew, though Thorin never spoke of it, that he was sure his father was alive. That he was only wearing a borrowed mantle. Filling in, as it were, before their true leader could take his place.

If that was what it took to get him out of bed in the morning, Balin would not begrudge him his false hope. But it chafed sometimes, to feel like the only one among them who knew the truth. Maybe not the only one; Freya had given up. No doubt her thoughts were as black as his own. 

But he was the one who was out and about. He was the one who allowed himself to be relied upon. He was the one who would stick it out, who would try _not_ to disappoint, though he knew how fruitless a goal that was. 

“‘Scuse me!” 

Balin kept walking; he’d come to the very gate of the interior range, probably by habit. There was no one here who would have cause to speak to him. They must have meant someone else. 

The sound of running feet assailed his ears and he stepped aside, impatiently waiting for them to pass, though he had nowhere in particular to go. His brother was right, he really hadn’t the temperament to advise. Once, Thrór thought he had potential in that arena. He’d let him sit in on council meetings. Said he admired his mind. But that was long ago and far away; all Balin had taken from the Mountain was knowledge without the skill to wield it. 

“Excuse me.” A dwarf stopped in front of him, slightly out of breath. He wasn’t anyone Balin recognized, not a lord or lady of the range. This dwarf was in his late middle age, sporting a long beard that was likely darker red, once, but had faded to the kind of carroty orange that his Uncle Gróin’s wife sported. “I don’t mean to presume, but are you the son of - ”

Balin almost snapped, _“No, I’m not,”_ but stopped himself before he dishonored his father’s memory. He wasn’t so lost to miserable despair that he would start treading those waters, but it was only a matter of time. Instead he mastered himself enough to reply, “Fundin Farinul, aye.”

It was an inadequate sort of response. He ought at least to have followed up with **blessed be his hands** , but Balin was in no mood to recount his father’s great deeds. Indeed, if this dwarf was so enamored of Balin’s illustrious father as the others of his ilk they’d passed on the roadside - all praise and no assistance - he’d likely perform the task for him. 

The dwarf’s eyes lit up and Balin braced himself for a long recitation of his father’s great deeds, but instead the dwarf replied, “You are! That was her husband, aye, Halldóra Fundinul, blessed be her hands.”

The surprise he felt at hearing his _mother_ spoken of so warmly by a stranger nearly shocked Balin out of his bad mood. “Pardon me?”

“Boldi, son of Taldi,” he said, bowing very low. “At your service - I’d _heard_ her sons had survived the massacre, but I never dreamed - ah, are you Balin, then, or Dwalin?”

It took Balin a long moment to reply. He’d heard the Mannish sentiment, about folk who lived under rocks and he understood the meaning, even if, as a dwarf, residing under a rock certainly had no impact on whether or not one was kept informed of the latest news from the Kingdoms. The phrase took on a whole new meaning as he stared at this Boldi. For what dwarf who stuck his nose out of his own beard knew of Fundin the Fearless as nothing more than the husband of King Thrór’s court scribe? Aye, his mother was a well-known scholar in her own right, but as far as being stopped on the street, it was his father who claimed the lion’s share of notice. And although Boldi wore spectacles, he could not be so short-sighted as to wonder whether or not Balin might be someone described as the “giant from the East.”

“Balin,” he replied slowly, inclining his head shallowly. “At...your service. You were acquainted with my mother, then?”

“Acquainted, aye,” Boldi nodded wistfully. “I used to make the trek across the continent once every five years, when I could. For the academic conferences, you know. I’ll tell you, lad, a thousand years of mourning won’t be enough to grief for the minds lost to that worm - and hers the prize jewel of the lot. I, er...had a wee bitty fancy for your mother, once upon a time, I’ll not deny it.”

 _May the swords and axes of my ancestors preserve me,_ Balin thought to himself. He ought to have remained in his rooms and had it out with Dwalin. 

Boldi, sensing he had perhaps crossed a line, coughed and said, “Well, I’m glad to see her people well-settled. You are, are you not?”

“As much as we can be,” Balin said simply. “Your lords and ladies must decide whether or not we’re worth the trouble. It’s a fine thing to take refugees into one’s village, but the villagers themselves must eat.”

Balin expected that Boldi would nod, take himself away, perhaps with some parting words of admiration for his mother, but instead he rocked back and stroked his beard thoughtfully. “How long are you contracted?”

 

“Seasonally,” Balin replied. “When Durin’s Day comes round, we’ll see what the impact of our residence has been. If we are inoffensive, we may be granted a year more before we must contract again.”

“Now, that hardly seems fair,” Boldi protested. “That’s not even a six-month, how on earth can they - my lords and ladies, as you put it - how can they know _what_ impact has been made, if any? This year’s harvest and trade can’t have anything to do with dwarves who only just arrived in the springtime.”

Balin shrugged, “Perhaps not, but we are only guests and guests must be invited.”

Boldi looked skeptical, “There’s got to - have you had the chance to look at the lawbooks? Surely there’s an ordinance or at least a precedent? Even if it dates back to the days of Khazad-dûm, it might be honored.”

Balin managed not to laugh in his face, but only just. “As I am not a resident, I have not the power to access the archives of the library. Nor even pass its doors without a - ”

Boldi was carrying a large collection of books and paper. The former he dropped in the dirt and the latter he picked up, scribbling upon furiously with a pen plucked from some interior pocket of his coat. “Here, to vouch for your good character. Keep it ‘til the ink rubs off and apply to me for another, if you must. I should think a son of Halldóra Fundinul will make good use of it.”

It was a very good thing, Balin thought numbly as he thanked the queer fellow and pocketed the voucher, that Boldi had encountered him and not his brother. Otherwise this exchange would have gone very differently. 

“I wish you luck,” Boldi extended his hand for Balin to take before he took his leave. “You are her _graven_ image, lad. I wish you and yours all the best.”

Balin remained where he was for a long while, staring after Boldi, unsure if what had just passed was real. If it was - he’d not read what was scrawled on the paper, after all, it might have been an insult - it was the only scrap of good luck he’d come by in months.

Slowly unfolding the paper, Balin saw that this was exactly what it was. A scrap of good luck.

**I, the undersigned Boldi, son of Taldi do hereby declare Balin, son of Halldóra, to be of good character and scholarly mind. He will make proper use of the library and its collections, obeying all of the rules set down for the perusal and borrowing of materials and conduct of his person while within. I have personal knowledge of his family and personally assure you that he is a dwarf to be trusted.**

To be trusted. Balin’s insides twisted as he read those words over and over. He felt strangely close to tears, but swallowed hard and turned away from the gate. 

He still believed it. That everyone, if you knew them long enough, and well enough, would disappoint in the end. He believed it, but it did not follow that he relished the idea of being a disappointment to others. 

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Balin steeled himself and turned back toward the Mountain, intent on finding his way to the library. He would do something profitable on this day. Now that he’d been given another’s _trust_ , he felt he had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone was wondering what Balin was up to, I'm sure of it. But it was nice to bring Boldi back. Bonus points if you remember who he is.


	15. Chapter 15

It was a rare day when Víli did not find himself spending the daylight hours down a hole and he was well pleased to have time to get himself spick and span before he paid a call to Queen Freya.

Not that he’d ever paid a visit to royalty before - closest he ever got to the Lords and Ladies of the Blue Mountains was tripping over the feet of a Firebeard prince a few years ago on Durin’s Day. He said he was sorry for jostling him, the prince said it was nothing to worry about, they wished each other all the glad tidings of the day, then went on their own way. 

Both had been somewhat disheveled - it got hot underneath the bonfires, even when the autumn air around them was chilly - so he wasn’t exactly sure what the usual forms of dress were when one was meeting one’s betters, so Víli settled on his Temple coat, a clean pair of trousers, a dark tunic that wasn’t patched too much and his most recently polished boots.

 _There,_ , he thought, catching a glance at himself in the small mirror that had hung in his parents’ chambers. _Pretty as a picture._

What would they say, he wondered, if they knew he was going off to introduce himself to a royal queen of his father’s people? Kíli would have laughed himself silly, he was sure. Da would have shaken his head and wondered what his younger boy was about. Ma likely would’ve smiled and said, ‘Well, why not?’

Why not, indeed? 

Only took a bit of asking around to find their lodgings. Missus Irpa and her lads came over queerly when he asked them. To be specific, Dori rolled his eyes and muttered something about, ‘wasting his time,’ Irpa said she wasn’t quite sure where it was they’d taken rooms, but she’d let him know when she did, and Nori just laughed at him. 

The laughter was an improvement, actually, from Nori. Most of the time the lad just glared at him or pointedly ignored him - and, by turning away every time Víli wandered into a room or propping his head up on his hand at supper when Víli started in to talking and blocking one of his ears, proved he was paying the lodger far more attention than he wanted to be. Still, laughing at him could only be a good sign - he both looked at Víli when he did it and made a noise at him. Had to be only one short step from that to actually talking to him. 

Irpa never did tell him where it was Dís and Thorin’s mother lived. Oddly, it was from a pair of patrolling guardsmen that he got his information from. Broadbeam born and bred. They directed him to one of the larger apartments, normally taken up by the smiths and other such tradesfolk and a little more inquiring once he got himself started that way led to the revelation that they lived on one of the uppermost floors, aboveground. 

Víli wondered if they liked that living situation suited them as well as it did him. It was noisier, living at the street-level, the air was full of comings and goings and nighttime chirpings that he found far more soothing than the dull silence of his family’s old home. The two ‘dams who’d bought it off him were expecting a wee one come springtime; he wished them many more such blessings in the future, that the house might always have some life in it. 

There wasn’t any sign of life in the flat he’d been directed to. He placed his ear up at the keyhole, wondering whether or not Queen Freya was out. Then, thinking he’d look like a strange prowler if she should happen down the hall he straightened up and tried his luck in knocking. 

Víli thought his first assumption, that she wasn’t home, must be right, it took so long for him to hear the tell-tale shuffling of feet on the other side of the door. He was just about to walk away when it creaked open, just enough for Víli to find himself eye-to-eye with the lady herself. 

At least, he assumed it was the lady herself. He’d only glimpsed her from afar the one time and hadn’t got more of an impression of her than a short beard and long golden hair. Close up, she seemed thinner and older than she had all those months ago. Her golden hair was shot through with silver strands and though her face was comely enough, there were hollows in her cheeks that matched her daughter’s. 

And that, indeed, was all he could see that bespoke a relationship between parent and child. Queen Freya was a good deal shorter than Dís and seemed as if she’d once been much stouter - she was of a height with Víli himself and her clothing hung loose over her frame, billowing at the bust and belly slightly. But though she was thin, she did not seem frail. Her eyes, blue like old ice, narrowed at him and she asked, in a clear, Eastern voice, “What do you want?”

“To make your acquaintance,” Víli said, smiling warmly. With a short bow he introduced himself, “Víli, son of Fíli, at your service. I got acquainted with your kinfolk down the forge - Thorin and Dís, I mean. Figured you might like t’know who your lad and lass have been keeping company with.”

The lines in her face deepened and her lips thinned in obvious displeasure. “You’re the one who encouraged my daughter to indebt herself to one of your landlord’s, are you?”

Never had a smile fallen from Víli’s face so fast, “Beg pardon?”

“Víli,” she spat the name like an oath. “I remember that name. Of course I do. When I hear rumors of my daughter comporting herself like a beggar and keeping company with foreign paupers - oh, I remember you.”

Víli blinked. Once. Then twice as he couldn’t quite believe his ears. “Ma’am, I don’t know what you heard, but I reckon as you got it the wrong way round - ”

“No, _you_ are mistaken if you mean to...well, I don’t know what you mean to do,” Freya said, tightening her hold on the doorframe with fingers that seemed more like claws than dwarven hands. “Drive her from her family - ruin the reputation of a mere _child_ , the only princess of our line whose infamy would be enough to get us all run out of here, I don’t pretend to understand how you think - you believe you’re the only ones who suffered in that war, when _our_ warriors took the worst brunt of the killings, when _we_ are the ones who had nowhere to go when the smoke had cleared and the wounded recovered.”

“I never thought any such - ”

“Be _quiet!”_ she ordered him and Víli shut his lips quick. He took a half-step back from the door, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender, though Freya seemed to think it was attack. “I’ve told my daughter to stay well clear of you and now I’m telling you - keep your distance from her _and_ my son. If all was as it should be, she would not know you - would not pause in the street to lay her eyes upon you any more than she would a common rat.”

Víli was tolerably certain that no one - not even the most cantankerous foreman he’d ever swung a mattock under - had ever, in his life, spoken to him like that. It was so far from anything he’d ever experienced, so removed from even his parents’ most deserved scoldings that he didn’t even feel all that hurt by it. The words hardly stung - why, she might have been speaking in Elvish for all that he understood that level of vitriol. 

Another dwarf might’ve felt it, might’ve had their pride stung and torn asunder. And aye, there was a strange churning in Víli’s gut that might’ve been outrage. But he didn’t rail and he didn’t wave his fists around. He just looked at the ‘dam, at her faded prettiness and her very clean, patched clothing. She held her chin so stiff and proud he thought her shoulders must hurt from the effort. She was breathing hard, as if she’d just exerted herself a great deal in telling him off. 

He couldn’t give blow for blow. He couldn’t even if such a thing was in his nature. For when he looked at this fine lady who told him he was nothing, nothing at all, he couldn’t hate her. He just felt very, very sorry for her that she went round carrying all that anger. It was a burden heavier to bear than a whole hob o’bricks, as his father said. 

_You don’t got to scratch an angry dwarf too deep to find a whole heap o’hurting ‘neath it all,_ Da said once. _Don’t make it right, what they say or do. But it don’t mean you got to pay them much mind, except to feel sorry for ‘em._

“Sorry you feel such, ma’am,” Víli said, meaning it with all his heart. “But as you do, don’t see I got anything more to say to you. Good morning - to you and yours.”

She slammed the door in his face. At least, Víli thought to himself as he started for home, she hadn’t spat on him.

Irpa’s home was empty, or so it seemed, when he came inside. He started for his own room, peeling off his best coat, thinking he ought to give his boots a shine since he hadn’t any idea when next he’d use them, but that they should be ready to wear as not - when he caught a furtive movement out of the corner of his eye.

Nori. Sitting in an armchair with his legs flung over the arm, dangling toward the floor. There wasn’t any way for him to leave without being seen and he froze as he looked at Víli, then frowned. 

“Still got your head,” he observed. “Ama didn’t like your odds there.”

“Hmm?” Víli asked, slightly astonished that he was being spoken to so directly. “What’s that?”

Nori sighed, as if Víli was being a bit slow and he hadn’t the patience to wait for him to play catch up. “Ama reckoned Missus Freya’d take your head off. But you’ve still got it. Ama didn’t want you going over, but didn’t want to say.”

“Why didn’t she want to say?” Víli asked, crossing over to where Nori sat. He was all tangled up in what, at first seemed to be a moth-eaten blanket, but was revealed to be an old scarf, very worn and far too big for him. 

“She said she didn’t want to go disappointing you,” Nori replied. “Dori said forewarned is forearmed. But she said that she thought, if you figured her and Missus Freya for friends, that you might move out after she took your head off. I said you couldn’t, if you didn’t have a head. But no one listens to me.”

“Your Ma’s friends with your Queen, then?” Víli asked, leaning against the armchair. He couldn’t say this conversation with Nori was acting as a pick-me-up, but it was better than nothing at all.

“Eh,” Nori waved his hands dismissively. “Ama says we’ve all got to get on together since we’re all we’ve got - but she also said that Missus Freya’s nasty and sharp as a rusty cutlass and she feels bad for Dís and Thorin. She said it to Dori, I wasn’t supposed to be listening, but I was and I’m telling you ‘cos I can’t tell Dís. If I spoke nasty about her Ama, she’d black my eye, no matter whether she’s my sister or not.”

Now, _that_ was interesting. Víli assumed he’d lost the thread of conversation somewhere, but he was eager to pick it back up again. Sitting himself down on a footstool, he looked up at Nori asked, “Your sister, eh? What’re you, his highness Prince Nori?”

The lad grinned at that, quickly. “I like that - but, nah, s’just a joke. Dís...well, she’s always scolding me and nagging at me like a real sister - or, I expect like a sister, I haven’t got one. Just Dori. And he scolds and nags...I guess it sounds the same when I say it like that, but it’s not. Dís is pleasanter about it.”

Pleasanter. Víli could believe it, Dís was pleasant about most things. How she’d gotten to be so, growing up under - ah, but that was unkind. And just because a body got unkindness thrown at it, didn’t mean there was any good reason to throw unkindness back. 

“Well, a soul’s got to put up with a bit o’nagging now and again. From someone who cares about you and all,” Víli observed. Nori only scowled, burrowing down into his scarf. 

“Now and again’s not so bad,” he mumbled. “But every - nevermind. Are you leaving, then?”

“Leaving?” Víli asked. “Why no, not at all. I like it here. I like your Ma - she’s kindly, even if she didn’t forearm me afore I charged into battle - not that I knew I’d be fighting a battle, but - ah. I figures Missus Freya’s just a wee bit...melancholy. Eh? And she wants to take care o’her own. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with nagging if it’s pleasantly done,” Nori replied. “But Missus Freya wasn’t pleasant, was she?”

“No,” Víli admitted. “She wasn’t that.”

“Aren’t you angry?” Nori asked, sitting up a little straighter and looking Víli in the eye. “Ama was boiling after she and Missus Freya went shopping the other day. Said there wasn’t an excuse, her being so contrary.”

“Well, likely there’s not,” Víli shrugged. “But I amn’t angry. I think...I think your Missus Freya’s angry enough for both of us. I feel...hmm. I feel I rather want to talk to Dís - ”

“I’ll go with you,” Nori volunteered, hopping right up off the chair, untangling himself from his scarf and carefully folding it before leaving it behind. “I haven’t been down to the smithy before, I want to see it, but Dori’s always after me to work with him or stay with him or mind him and I hardly get a minute to myself.”

“You’ve been by yourself a good while, by the looks of it,” Víli said, straightening and tossing his coat down on top of the chair. “What’re you doing here by your lonesome, may I ask?”

“If you were going to leave, I was going to help you pack,” Nori informed him. “Then take your room. I’m tired of sharing a bed with Dori, he snores - he says he doesn’t, but he does. Do you have any money? Ama made toast, but there wasn’t any butter for it and I didn’t want dry bread.”

“We’ll split a sack o’pasties, you and I,” Víli promised. Nori stuck his hand out and they shook on it. 

_That son o’mine,_ his Ma used to say, so very sweetly, _chases every pebble he sees glinting in the gutter, sure it’s a piece o’diamond what’s come off someone’s ring._

 _Ah, that’s no matter,_ Víli smiled at her teasing. _Even if I haven’t a single diamond, I’ve a collection of very fine pebbles._

Nori likely would not take the comparison to a pebble - even a good looking pebble - very well, so Víli didn’t say anything about it, but he had to admit to himself that the day wasn’t a total wash. After all, he’d started it with the intention of making a new friend and he thought he was succeeding in that. Even if this wasn’t exactly the dwarf he hoped would warm to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly expected that this would rattle him out of a good mood, but I really ought to know better by now - Víli is a one dwarf pick-me-up unto himself.


	16. Chapter 16

It was inevitable. It was only surprising that he’d lasted this long. At last there came a day when neither Freya nor Thorin left the house.

Freya heard her daughter leave alone - after listening to an entirely one-sided conversation that got shriller and shriller on Dís’s side until it faded into the quiet shuffling of boots on stone and the sound of the front door opening and shutting softly, on well-oiled hinges. 

One pair of boots that left quickly, without pausing to snatch a mealy apple from the poorly stocked pantry. Freya ought to throw them away. No one was going to eat them, not in that household, not that day. 

She waited until she was certain that Dís was not coming back before she ventured out. She paused outside Thorin’s door, left ajar by his sister. It didn’t take long at all for her to discern the sound of quiet sobbing. 

If the door had been closed, she would not have ventured in. If the door had been closed, she would have pretended not to have heard him. If the door had been closed...but it wasn’t. And there was a small corner of Freya’s heart that had not yet been numbed by grief. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

_How do you like being a mother?_ Frigga asked her once, shortly after Thorin was born. 

_Fine,_ she replied. _Until he starts crying._

Freya wasn’t a thing like her own mother. Or her father, come to that. Her father was a big, broad, good-humored dwarf, a favorite of Thrór’s. And her mother was...contented seemed a poor choice to sum up a whole soul, but so it was. Herdís had been sweet-natured, loving, affectionate, and peaceful. From whence Freya derived her own temperament was a mystery, though being her parents’ only probably had something to do with it. She was critical and demanding, had been ever since she was young. Since her demands were always met, since they had no one else to divert their attention from the task of making her as happy as they could, it was little wonder that the rest of the world, caught up in its own concerns, seemed lacking by contrast. 

Freya was inclined to jealousy. She’d not known how much until she had her own children. 

Thráin had few close friends, few dwarves that could command his attention over and above his wife. She had far more calls on her social calendar, rare was the hour when she desired Thráin’s attention all to herself and he was unable to give it to her. At least, at first. It was a bitter thing to realize that the dwarf most likely to separate Thráin from her was Thráin himself.

Tears prickled at Freya’s eyes and she blinked them away, staring at Thorin, a crumpled lump in the bedclothes. Still crying. Ah, that was right. She had been thinking of her children. 

Once Thorin was born, she was determined that he would love her best of all. Quite irrationally determined. Well, perhaps not so irrational. He _needed_ her most of all, did he not? Or did he?

_“That’s right, come to Auntie Dóra, dear thing,”_ Halldóra had crooned mere minutes after Thorin had been wiped clean of blood.

He’d been wailing piteously, as he was passed around from dwarf to dwarf, fulfilling custom - the more hands that held him, the better off he’d be, the luckier, it was said. Only his father wasn’t there. Hadn’t held him yet and Freya wanted to keep him with her, tucked by her side until Thráin returned. But she hadn’t known when Thráin would return and everyone was waiting - waiting and pointedly keeping silent about her husband’s absence. 

Freya had been angrier by far at her husband than at Dóra. When they’d become courting, Dóra had been one of Thráin’s friends that she hadn’t much liked. She talked and laughed and smiled too much. She was exhausting. Her voice was grating. And, worst of all, everyone loved her - especially Thráin. She was like a sister to him, but Freya did not have sisters or brothers and she did not like the idea of Thráin pretending he did. 

If Thorin had kept crying, she might have kept her peace. But Dóra smiled at him and cooed at him in that awful Elf-high voice and Freya snapped, _“No, I don’t like that.”_

Dóra looked taken aback. She had a right to. She’d stayed by her, at Freya’s own request, as she panted and bled and sweated her son into this world. But all Freya could think was, _his father should have been here, should be here now, I don’t_ like _this._

_“Missus Halldóra, I think,”_ she said firmly, stretching out her arms to take Thorin back. _“You aren’t really his aunt. Not even Thráin’s, are you, only by marriage. So it will be Missus Halldóra. I prefer it.”_

That ever-present smile faltered. But then it was back - if possible, it seemed kinder than before. _“Whatever you like,”_ Dóra said carefully, placing Thorin back in her arms. _“I’ll leave you to get acquainted. If you want a hand, don’t you hesitate to call on me.”_

Freya took her son back and thanked her, distantly. Thinking, _No. No. You have two sons. Thorin is_ mine _and you can’t have him. Not a piece of him._

It only took a week. A week of crying, a week of fussing, of endless nursing, of hastily grabbed moments of sleep, of a husband who’d come back, eventually, who apologized for going missing, but was too nervous to be of any _use_ to her, of feeling her hands go idle and fingers go soft, not having time to attend to her craft because she insisted she could care for her child utterly by herself. Because she had to. Because she didn’t want anyone else to worm their way into his heart. 

A week broke her of her resolve. She’d stood over Thorin’s cradle shouting, _“What’s wrong? What is it you want?”_ Naturally, there had been no answer. just more screaming. And it was then, her baby wailing in her ear, that she found herself at Dóra’s doorstep.

They’d laughed about it, years later. About how fastidious she’d been. How particular, how fussy, how stubborn. Parents can be like that with first children, Dóra always said, diplomatic to a fault - but Freya still never allowed her children to call her ‘auntie.’

_I like being a mother just fine,_ she thought to herself grimly. _Except for when they cry._

It was her parents’ fault, she decided long ago. For so much of her young life, she’d had everything she wanted. When things didn’t go her way, she decided that the world was wrong, unjust. She still felt that way. She had been done a great injustice by Fate. This was not the home she should have had. This was not the way her children were supposed to live. This was not the life she wanted. Why should she deign to live such a life? Why should any of them?

Thorin cried quietly. It was a skill he’d developed over time. Not to the point of silence, but he was quiet. He didn’t want to be a bother. He had always had good manners. She’d drummed that into him from the start. 

_Don’t snatch toys away from Dwalin, that’s very rude. Speak back when you’re spoken to, you don’t want to be rude. Don’t whinge and wail at me, keep your voice down - that’s what polite dwarflings do._

_It’s perfectly alright being a mother, but I hate it when they cry._

Once she would have asked him what was wrong, sure it couldn’t be as bad as all that. Now she did not. It no longer mattered. In fact, more than once, lately, when Thorin or Dís smiled and laughed over some incident or other from their day that struck them as amusing, she wanted to rail at them. _What are you so happy about? How can you smile after all that’s happened? How?_

Freya sat down on the bed, her hip touching Thorin’s hunched back. She pulled his hair away from his face. His breath hitched, once. Then once again, as if he could hold make himself stop. He turned his face away, buried it in his arm, but his shoulders shook and she knew he’d failed. 

_You could be handsome if you took more care with your hair,_ Freya used to tell him testily. 

She’d resigned herself to plain children before Thorin was born. At the time, she thought that would be the worst of it. Plain children. Gangly children with skinny noses. She thought that would be her husband’s legacy for them. What a fool she’d been. 

Thorin was every inch his father’s son, poor thing. If he had anything of her in him, she could not remember what it was. She used to pity him for it, but now, she had so little pity left for anyone save herself that he, her own son, the one whose love she’d coveted, was becoming just another injustice that had been placed as a stumbling block in her path. Soon, very soon, she would lack the strength to rise when she fell. 

_What’s wrong?_

When he was a baby he could not answer her and now, grown and nearing his hundreth year, she was sure that if she put the question to him, he would not reply. What was wrong? Just everything. 

“I miss him,” Thorin said, as if in response to her unasked question. Freya’s hand stilled on the back of his head. She’d truly not been expecting him to speak. “I want him back.”

Something wet rolled down her cheek. Was the ceiling leaking? Wouldn’t that be just the thing to cap off a miserable morning. 

Did she _miss_ him, as well? Of course. She’d spent all her life missing Thráin. Nights spent alone in the bed they were meant to share, while he passed the time in quiet wakefulness in the sitting room below. Crying, sometimes, like her son was. Slipping out of feasts and celebrations to breathe behind half-opened doors until someone - usually she - caught him and they both rolled their eyes and shook their heads in embarrassment over his actions. _Come back, come back, come back to me, now._

Summoning Thráin had always been like summoning a ghost. 

“It’s my fault,” Thorin moaned, the words breaking and cutting off into another fresh batch of tears.

Freya shook her head, but he didn’t see it. Whose fault was it, really? He’d been running and running even before Thorin was born. It was in his nature to flee. Not from peril, but from comfort, from company, from joy. Thráin had a good reputation as a warrior, but Freya dismissed the idea that her husband had ever been brave. One had to be a cowardly dwarf indeed to run from family. 

“Don’t cry,” she said. It came out like a command. “Stop crying. It won’t bring him back, will it?”

Nothing ever did. Not tears, not screams, not smiles. She should have known it would come to this. She, more than anyone else, should have known. It should not have come upon her, like an ambush, this feeling of being bereft; she should have been _used_ to it. 

“He would have gone eventually,” she said, loudly, too loudly in this quiet room. “That was his way.”

It was only when Thorin turned, looked at her with red, uncomprehending eyes, that she realized he must have been talking about Frerin. 

Freya stiffened. She drew back, running the edge of her sleeve roughly across his face. 

“That’s better,” she said briskly. “Go to work, now. Just hold a cold cloth over your face and get the redness out. Go on. Go.”

Swiftly, Freya rose and swept out of the room, crossing to her own chamber and shutting the door firmly behind her. Unlike her eldest son, she’d never mastered the art of weeping quietly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything is terrible.


	17. Chapter 17

Dwalin was slow getting the fire lit. That was because his arms were occupied consoling a sobbing mess of a little dwarrow lass who’d been too much piled on of late. 

“Shh,” he said, guiding Dís over to the water barrel that he might perch on its edge. Dís wrinkled his tunic in her hands and buried her face in his chest. “It’ll be alright. He’ll be alright.”

If Thorin could pull himself back together after Azanulbizar, he could pull himself together after anything. And if sometimes he needed to spend a day, or even two, hidden in a dark room, well, that was better than disappearing altogether. Dwalin had known Thorin all his life, had seen him at his very best and his very worst. This had happened before, too often to forget, but Dís had not his long years of experience. 

“He’s going to go, he’s going to leave,” she insisted, hiccuping and sniffling hard. “Just like Ada, he’ll be gone and I’ll be all alone with Ama in that horrible place and then she’ll leave me and I’ll be all alone.”

“No, no you won’t,” Dwalin declared firmly, kissing her hair and rubbing circles on her back. “You won’t, my lass, Thorin isn’t going anywhere. Just needs to take a day, that’s all. He’ll be alright soon, I promise. You aren’t alone. I’m right here.”

That just made her cry harder. 

“Do you want to go back to my flat?” he asked. “I’ll give you the key, Balin’s been hidden in the library for days, he won’t be in. Just lie down for a few hours, come back when you - alright, alright.”

This latest suggestion was no better received than his assurances that he was right there. She started breathing, very fast, and shook her head so hard it felt like her whole body was trembling with the force of it. 

Dwalin stopped talking since that didn’t seem to be making things better. He only held Dís close and kept rubbing her back, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on her head. To be honest, he could do with a short rest himself.

Dís slumped against him, having wept herself into early exhaustion before the sun was properly up over the crest of the mountains. Dwalin didn’t blame her for her upset, he just wished there was something he could _do._

He spied Víli coming up the pathway, face in shadow, but the sun reflected off his golden hair sure enough. He raised his hand and seemed about to bellow until he caught sight of the scene in the forge. Then he paused and looked around a bit, as if wondering whether or not he might hide behind an obliging rock, unnoticed by the Longbeards within. 

_Hold,_ Dwalin signed with his free hand. Pulling back a bit from Dís he looked down at her and said, “Take a walk. Fetch some water, will you lass? I need to get the fire going.”

Dís swallowed hard and drew her sleeve across her eyes and nose. Without quite looking at him, she nodded shallowly, and trudged out the side door, not noticing Víli on the roadway. 

When she was out of earshot, Víli came jogging up to stall, talking so fast Dwalin miss half of what he said, “Oh, by the Maker, s’not her Ma, eh? Come over worse? Where’s Thorin, then? _You_ alright? We had words, her amad and I, didn’t seem so poorly as I were thinking, but then, you don’t know, eh? Anyhow, I come to check up on you all, but I can take meself away again if - ”

“Freya’s fine,” Dwalin said shortly, leaning over the stall. Perhaps he meant to loom, but he didn’t have it in him. He dropped his arms down on his elbows and buried his face in his hands. “Thorin’s having a bad day. That’s all. Dís is upset.”

“And you as well, eh?” Víli asked sympathetically. Getting up on his toes, he reached up and patted Dwalin’s shoulder. “Poor fellow. Old war wound?”

“Something like,” Dwalin grumbled, not shaking Víli’s hand off, though he supposed he should. Truth be told, he hadn’t the energy to be surly. Anyhow, that was a face he usually put on for strangers and though he didn’t count Víli amongst his bosom friends, he wasn’t quite a stranger either. “Bit more long-standing.”

For as much as their people prided themselves on their crafts, their knowledge of the healing arts, their ability to save lives and make them livable for those who sacrificed blood and limbs in wartime, Dwalin thought there were a few things they could stand to concentrate a bit more on. True, there were no craftsmen better at replacing arms or legs, stitching up wounds and bullying breath into tired lungs, but some hurts went beyond the skin. Stood to reason those ought to be looked after as well. 

Víli nodded as if he understood, but Dwalin didn’t think he did. No one did, not even those who’d known Thorin since his first Name Day. He’d always been quiet, but sometimes there was a silence in him that was more reminiscent of the tomb than the Temple. He hadn’t ever been fond of crowds, but there was a point when wanting a few minutes alone turned to days of solitude. It was hard to guess when the moment would come when he’d be more one way than the other. Dwalin guessed that it would be soon, had done for months now. He supposed he should be grateful that Thorin was resting in stone walls than a patched and dirty tent. 

“Bifur gets bad days too,” Víli said quietly and Dwalin raised his head. Despite the weight of his hand on his arm, he’d almost forgotten the other dwarf was there. “Bombur and Bofur do their best, but I go over sometimes. Thorin’s got someone with him, then? His Ma?”

Dwalin snorted, “She’s no help - did you say you _talked_ to her?”

Víli smiled, but it was a pale imitation of his usual carefree grin. “Oh, aye. That’s an earful as’ll last me ‘til the world’s made new - no disrespect meant, but she’s carrying a basketful o’hurt on her back, ain’t she?”

“Makes it lighter by dropping handfuls of what she’s carrying on all she meets,” Dwalin nodded, straightening up with a scowl. 

“Mmm,” Víli shrugs. “Seems to me she stops to pick up all what she scatters, then has to stand back up, her basket having got no lighter...ah, never mind, I’m no poet, me. She weren’t too nice, is all I’ll say, but - ”

“Look, if you’ve come to say you want to fight for your honor, can it wait ‘til I’ve lit the forge fire?” Dwalin interrupted him impatiently. “If it’s got to be settled today, you’ll get no good bout from Thorin, give it a bit - ”

“No!” Víli shouted, half laughing at the thought. “No, don’t you worry about that - ha! Nah, can you imagine? Thorin laid up, his Ma feeling poorly and here I come, wanting to fight you all! Hasn’t you all had enough?”

 

Had they? Dwalin thought so, but then, if you asked him the same question a quarter century ago, he’d have readily agreed that they’d suffered all they could be expected to endure. And still the blows kept coming. 

“You sure you we honest come by?” Dwalin asked, squinting at Víli. “Neither of your parents was re-Made, eh? Returned with secret wisdom from the Halls?”  
Víli laughed heartily at that notion. “Nah, not so far’s I know. Just honest folk. Actually, to hear me Ma tell it, it were her _sister_ , Catla, who had the diamond heart in the family. Ma said she was a muddy emerald next to her.”

“That’s a lot to live up to,” Dwalin observed.

Víli shrugged, “Well, I just tries to do ‘em proud, can’t see as how I ought to be just as they were. Wouldn’t work, anyhow, we’re different Made, after all. We’re our parents’ gifts, not their graven images.”

Dwalin just looked at him, stared for a long moment. For someone who could claim little formal education and no poetry, Víli could be a sage, when he put his mind to it. But any more conversation about his proper parentage (Dwalin still wanted convincing that Víli wasn’t the Broadbeam Father come again), was stalled momentarily when Dís returned hefting the water buckets. Her face was dry, but her nose remained very red. 

“Morning, lass!” Víli waved, irrepressibly cheerful as ever. “This cousin o’yours knows how to sweet-talk a lad, that’s for sure! Where’d he come by his good manners?”

“Dwalin was sweet-talking you?” she asked, smiling despite herself. She smiled especially brightly on Dwalin who shrugged and turned his attention (at long last) to their poor neglected fire. “Well, I don’t know where he learned it. He’s always been sweet, though. Aren’t you late for work?”

Víli clapped a hand to his head and exclaimed loudly, “By the picks and axes of my - got any use for a chimney sweep or a washer ‘round these parts? For I’m like to lose my place on account o’talking to you smiths!”

“We haven’t asked you to come!” Dwalin called as Víli ran down the roadway, perhaps trying to salvage his fierce reputation, which he’d earlier blown to smithereens. 

“What’d you say to him that was sweet?” Dís asked curiously. A little curiosity was good for her, Dwalin thought, she wasn’t so old yet that she was given to brooding. 

“Ach, it wasn’t sweet,” Dwalin shook his head. “Just a fair question - I had to ask whether or not he’d come by his ideas of the world in the Maker’s Halls. For his mind works differently from any dwarf I’ve known. Imagine, not wanting to get into a tussle with Thorin for his honor.”

 

Dís stilled in cleaning out their water barrel, eyes wide. “Why’d he want to fight Thorin? What’s Thorin done?”

 _You’re not actually an idiot,_ Balin told him, just days ago. _But sometimes you play the part a bit too well._

“Er…” Dwalin began, an endless litany of _Lie! Lie! Lie!_ pounding in his head, making it hard to come up with a good falsehood so that the truth didn’t start her crying again. “Well. You know, he and his not seeking retribution for Bifur. And all.”

Dís seemed puzzled, but she shrugged. “You’re still thinking about that now? It’s been weeks, I think they would’ve gone after Thorin before, not...not acted so friendly. Right?”

“Right,” Dwalin agreed. “It’s just...odd. Not what we’re used to, is it?”

“No,” Dís agreed. “But it’s nice. They’re very kind - all of them, not just Víli. Bofur too and Bombur and Thyra and her mother and I think Bifur may be the kindest of them all. They can’t _all_ have come from the Maker’s Halls, can they?”

Dwalin chuckled, “No, they can’t. Must be something in the water.”

They got to work after that, though Dís glanced to the road more frequently than she usually did, hoping she’d see Thorin coming down the path to join them. As day turned toward noon, they did have a visitor, but it was not Thorin. 

“Hallo!” Thrya hailed them, pink-cheeked and cheerful, a younger dwarfling walking beside her, holding her hand. “Túfi and I got an invitation to deliver, eh?”

She gave the little lad’s hand a shake and he looked up, wide-eyed and a bit awestruck in the presence of the giant Longbeards he’d heard tell of, one royalty and one a warrior. 

“‘member what it is?” she asked, nudging his shoulder. 

Túfi nodded, and licked his lips slowly before he started, “Er. Me sister’s...er, her Name Day’s a-coming and...and…”

Dwalin leaned down against the stall, giving the lad his full attention. That made him nervous, until Dwalin smiled encouragingly at him and he found his voice again. 

“Midsummer Eve we’re having a to-do,” he went on. “And we’d like for you to come. If you isn’t engaged somewheres else.”

Dwalin whistled, sounding impressed. “How’s that sound, Dís? The word coming by messenger and all.”

“That’s fine,” she grinned, coming out the side door and crouching down in front of Túfi. He smiled at her, revealing a great big gap where his front teeth ought to be. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you.”

“And not just for you two alone,” Thyra said. “Thorin’s welcome - more than welcome. And...and your ama. If she wants to come. Won’t start ‘til after the shops shut down for the day, no need to take a day or do up your beard special. Come as you are - and come hungry, for Da’s planning to feed the village for the night!”

“I’ll tell Thorin,” Dís promised, glancing over her shoulder at Dwalin, as if asking for permission. He nodded and left the forge as well, grateful for one piece of good news coming their way. “Thank you for inviting us, though. You didn’t have to.”

“‘Course I did!” Thyra exclaimed, sounding surprised at the thought. “I invite all me friends when there’s food and fun to be had.”

“It’s a rule,” Túfi nodded. “A party’s no party if you’re all alone.”

“Truer words never spoken,” Dwalin agreed, then muttered something under his breath about _Broadbeam wisdom._

The little lad shyly looked up at him and tugged on his sister’s hand. Thyra bent an ear and then prompted, “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

Once again Túfi bucked up all his courage and said, “What’s that on your hands, mister?”

“A bad idea,” Dwalin said, crouching down before the child. “My best friend and I once thought that we ought to get tattoos - though we’d neither of us seen a battle with our own two eyes - that’d show off what big, brave warriors we were.”

Túfi’s eyes grew very wide indeed and he looked harder at Dwalin’s hands. Dwalin held them out for inspection. “What’s it say?”

“ **Baruk Khazâd,** ” Dwalin replied. “I’ve got a teeny-wee imagination.”

“And what’d your best friend get?”

“Nothing at all,” Dwalin replied, to much gaping. “We only had enough pocket-change between us for the one and as I’m older, I thought I ought to be the first marked.”

Dwalin had evidently found himself a friend and admirer for life and he likely would have been peppered with more questions, had Thyra not reminded her brother that there were more invitations to give and they’d best be on their way. Before they left, she took Dís’s hand. 

“I hope you can come,” she said earnestly. “Even if it’s just for a bit.”

Dís smiled at her, weakly. “I’ll do my best. I want to come. Seventy-five’s important.”

“The number of years you’ve lived isn’t so important as the number of folks who come to mark them,” Thyra said, sounding as if she was quoting something, though Dís didn’t know what. “We’ll be on our way - but I’ll see you soon?”

Dís hesitated before she dropped her hand and nodded. “Aye. See you soon.”

Thyra bounced a bit on her feet, as if she was about to lunge at Dís for an embrace, but thought better of it at the last moment. “Good. Good. Well, good day, to you both!”

“Good day - sorry to be missing you.”

Dís actually gasped out loud. For standing a few feet behind Thyra, looking haggard and exhausted - and, curiously, not wearing anything at all upon his feet - was Thorin.


	18. Chapter 18

Thyra seemed determined not to notice anything was amiss. Túfi, belying his natural shyness, looked Thorin up and down, then inquired, “How come you ain’t - ” before his sister grabbed his arm and hurried him away.

“Sorry we missed you!” she called to Thorin. “But your sister’ll tell you what we was about - and I hope to see you there.”

Thorin looked vaguely confused, but then, exhaustion would do that to some. Certainly looked as if he’d passed a rough night of it - or a rough few nights. His eyes were darkly shadowed, his skin paler than it ought to be, and he looked far older than his ninety-nine years.

“What was she about?” Thorin asked.

“Where are your shoes?” Dís countered.

Thorin scrubbed a hand over his face tiredly. “Left the house. Realized I’d left them - and socks. Didn’t want to go back in and retrieve them.”

“Why’d you leave the house?” Dwalin asked, his tone all concern. “We were carrying on alright. By the Maker, you know it’s not a crime to take a day, don’t you?”

Thorin sighed. “Not in our house, it isn’t,” he replied simply. And Dwalin asked nothing more about it. “Look, I don’t want to have it out - ”

“We don’t need to have it out - I didn’t aim to have it out,” Dwalin replied quickly. “Only you look done-in.”

“Hmm,” Thorin replied quietly. He pinched the flesh between his eyes. The scrubbed his eyes as if ridding them of sleep. “Well. Nothing for it.”

Dwalin shook his head, fishing around in his pockets. “Take my key,” he urged. “Go to my room, get some sleep - some _proper_ sleep. Take my boots as well, we can’t have you tromping through the village and getting your toes run over by a cartwheel, I’m amazed you aren’t missing any already.”

“Took the long way here,” Thorin sighed, stifling a yawn. He appeared docile - an odd word to use to refer to a dwarf who’d taken down the Pale Orc with nothing but an heirloom sword and a tree branch. Defeated, more like. And, as Dwalin observed, as if the best thing for him would be a trip straight back to bed.

“We’ll take the short way back,” Dwalin said, bending to unlace his boots. “Dís, mind the stall - and if you get any more Broadbeam visitors coming this way, tell them you’re too busy to talk, you’ve chatted half the day away.”

“Haven’t,” she huffed. “And I haven’t talked more than _you_.”

Dís’s tone might have been light-hearted, but she cast anxious eyes at her brother. That morning, she wanted nothing more than for him to get up, come to work with her, but he hadn’t said anything, hadn’t moved. She’d been so cross, but the idea of Thorin being booted out of the house by Ama when he was feeling poorly didn’t sit right with her either. She didn’t want her brother to feel unwell, but if he was, she thought he had a right to stay in.

It was a queer sickness that overcame Thorin. A lethargy born not of war wounds flaring, for as far as she knew, he’d come away from the battles of the war relatively unscathed. But an immobility, a bone-weariness that he could neither help nor fight through by sheer stubborn willpower. She wished he could. But he could not, and these spells would come and go as they would.

Of course she remembered her grandfather, how could she not? She remembered his loneliness, his isolation, how he would take himself to the very end of the camp, alone, staring up at the night sky.

Once, she came upon him to call him to supper. Ada sent her, said she was _the clear favorite_ and off she should toddle to coax Udad to have a bite to eat. Dís did not believe she was anyone’s favorite, in those days. She could not help, she was only little, she just got in everyone’s way. But she went, dutifully, because her father so bid her to do so.

Udad was muttering to himself, chin tilted up, eyes squinting against the silver moonlight. For an instant, she’d been a bit frightened, and embarrassed, to have caught him acting so strangely.

“ _Udad?_ ” she asked, tentatively. She meant to ask ‘Will you come to supper?’ but it came out, “ _What are you doing?_ ”

He seemed startled to find her behind him, but not angry. “ _Having a little talk. With your Umad._ ”

Dís frowned. Her grandmother was dead. Lost to dragonfire, just like everyone else. Her confusion must have showed plainly, for her grandfather actually chuckled. He held out a hand and beckoned her over to take it.

“ _Your grandmother was so uncanny, she could read the stars, did you know that?_ ” he asked and Dís shook her head. She didn’t know that. Didn’t know much of anything, no one talked about the fallen, for fear that once they opened their mouths, the tears would start and they would never abate.

“ _Used them to orient herself, she did. I’m rotten at that. Rotten at a lot of things, but...I apologize, my darling, you were coming for a reason, I’m sure.”_

Dís smiled. She liked the way he called her ‘my darling.’ She wasn’t afraid anymore. “ _Supper’s on,_ ” she said.

“ _Then let’s eat,_ ” he replied. They walked back to the camp, hand-in-hand, but Udad did not speak much more and, thinking back, Dís wasn’t sure he’d had anything to eat either.

Thorin put his hand over his face, as if shielding his eyes from the sun, though the day was cloudy. “You don’t have to - ”

“That’s right!” Dwalin exclaimed, removing one boot, then the other, and handing them out to Thorin, along with his key. “I don’t! There you go. Happy journey.”

He smiled at Thorin, very brightly, too brightly to be believed. The corner of Thorin’s mouth twitched and he took the boots, eyes on the ground as he said, “Thanks.”

“It’s nothing,” Dwalin replied easily. Almost impossible to believe that a few days before they’d been pummeling each other senseless on the very spot where Dwalin now gave his friend the shoes off his feet, but that was the way it was with dwarves. Quick to fight and quicker still to help a kinsman in need.

There was nothing more to say, nothing more to be done - and Thorin had to be very badly off if he was taking Dwalin’s advice so quietly.

Gesturing toward the road with a little shooing motion, Dwalin waved Thorin off and stepped back up to the forge - in his stocking feet, as if there wasn’t anything out of the ordinary about it. Dís was fairly sure she’d never admired him more.

Thorin looked at her and Dís held her breath. Dwalin had talked enough for all three of them, which was good since she hadn’t any idea what to say or do. She never did, she was only certain that she ought to do _something_ for her brother who spent every moment of his waking hours working tirelessly for them.

Fortunately, Thorin didn’t seem to have anything in particular to say to her. He dropped his eyes, sighed deeply, and dragged himself down the road.

“He’ll be alright,” Dwalin spoke quietly into Dís’s ear. He put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “Don’t worry.”

She didn’t want to. She wanted to be brave and strong and good like Dwalin, but it was so _hard_. Ama was angry all the time, Thorin was so sad he didn’t want to get out of bed and...that was all. They were the only ones left. And no matter what she did, whether she stayed home with them, in suffocating silence, or went out to escape from that gloomy flat, nothing made a bit of difference. Nothing changed. She couldn’t make anything better.

 _Frerin could make anyone smile,_ she thought, feeling tremendously sad and guilty all at once. _I wish Frerin was here._

Dís bit her lip and her eyes stung as she tried to blink back tears, did a rotten job of it. She sniffled into her sleeve and pulled away when Dwalin tried to tug her closer.

“Back to work,” she said in a wobbly voice. At least, if she stoked the fire, she could pretend it was the smoke that was bothering her.

* * *

 

On an ordinary day, Thorin would have trekked through the village as quickly as possible, head tilted down, shoulders hunched, cowardly hoping to avoid being noticed or - may the hammers of his ancestors forfend - recognized. Either accolades or abused, he hadn’t the patience for it and would prefer that nothing at all be said to him, by anyone.

It wasn’t right for a king to act that way. And ‘king’ was the role he was meant to be playing. His grandfather had never done such. Thorin remembered when he was a child, accompanying Udad to the market. He stopped at every stall, including those where he intended to make no purchase, talking to folk, asking questions. Thorin marveled at the way he seemed to know everyone’s names, from the oldest grandmother to the newest little dwarfling, resting in a cot behind a box of glass beads. It took hours, sometimes, for him to finish his ‘rounds,’ as Thorin’s father called it. Thorin was usually exhausted by the end, but Udad would pick him up, put him on his shoulders and buy him a sack of toffees, not caring if he wound sticky fingers in his beard.

“Great in war and great in friendship,” Udad would inform him cheerfully. That was what built kingdoms. “And between myself and your Umad, we’ve just about got it covered.”

Thorin’s reputation was made for him on the battlefield. As to the rest...well, he was not permitted a kingdom here in the West. Only a settlement. Perhaps the rest could attend to itself.

He plodded through the streets wearily. He did not raise his head or his eyes from the road. If any called out to him, he decided he would ignore them. He hadn’t the fire in him to argue with Dwalin earlier, he was useless. Entirely useless.

Dwarves were not without perception. Thorin seemed disinclined to company and most who passed him in the street gave him a wide berth. He only glanced up from the dusty road when he thought he might have missed the turn onto Dwalin and Balin’s street. Had he missed it? Or was it still further off…

“Thorin!”

He tensed, dropped his eyes, stiffened his neck and would have walked away, but he had no idea where to go. Again, his name was called and everything within Thorin shrank away, _No, no, you’ve got the wrong dwarf, don’t talk to me, don’t see me, don’t come near._

“ **Are you lost?”**

Bifur. It was Bifur.

“Oh, aye,” Thorin sighed. He closed his eyes. He’d been lost for years.

“ ** **Where are you bound?** ” he asked. “ **This land I know well, though I cannot vouch for the council halls.**** ”

“No, I’m not,” Thorin started, tripping over his own tongue. “Thank you, but...I don’t need any…”

Bifur had such kind eyes. Perhaps that was what allowed Thorin to look at him.

“I’m trying to find my cousins’ flat, got a bit turned around,” he said finally, shrugging in an ‘It’s-always-the-way-with-me’ gesture, a self-conscious little motion that he thought the road had bred out of him. It wasn’t wise to show weakness to another. It wasn’t safe.

Bifur inquired after the road where they were staying, Thorin told him and, as he suspected, he’d passed it.

“ ** **When one has much on one’s mind, losing the way is to be expected**** ,” Bifur said, by way of excuse, Thorin was sure. “ ** **Come, may I walk with you?**** ”

Thorin shrugged, belatedly noticing the back slung over Bifur’s shoulder, “If you aren’t...but you’re busy. Going somewhere?”

“ ** **Only the market,**** ” Bifur informed him. “I ** **do not sell my wares myself - it is difficult to sell among Men.**** ”

Thorin nodded. It would be, if one could not talk to them. Thorin often found his tongue stilled, his throat tight, but it was nothing to Bifur’s difficulties. Nothing.

“Toys?” he asked and Bifur nodded. The axe blade gleamed in the sun, bright and merciless, overhead. He lay a gentle hand on Thorin’s shoulder.

“ ** **Come,**** ” he said again. “ ** **It is not far.**** ”

Thorin allowed himself to be led and, for a brief minute, it was as if he was with his grandfather again. Bifur seemed to know everyone and though he did not speak to them, he smiled and nodded and waved at dozens of dwarves who stopped in their doings to wish him good-day and hail him in the street. Thorin, practically on Bifur’s arm, could not shirk away as he would have wanted to, but Bifur was warm enough in his returned greetings for the both of them.

He deposited Thorin on the doorstep, eyeing him carefully as he fitted the key in the lock. “ ** **Can I do anything more for you?**** ” Bifur asked. “ ** **Before I go?**** ”

“No,” Thorin said, quickly, too quickly. He did not like it, this open air, the breeze, the chattering voices. Hadn’t liked the thought of it that morning when his limbs felt too heavy to carry him out of bed. Didn’t like it now, even though he well knew he could not ask for better company.

Bifur nodded, carelessly, as if he had not just done Thorin a great kindness and had not been treated to rudeness in response. Desperation seized Thorin’s heart, a sharp contrast to the cloud of uncaring melancholy that lay about him like a shroud. It seemed terribly important that Bifur not think him ungrateful.

“Thank you,” Thorin said, then, thinking that sounded absurd, continued, “for...taking time...I should not...I didn’t...what I mean to - ”

“ ** **Nay, I did not do so much,**** ” Bifur replied with a smile. “ ** **For I did not bring you any sausage bread.**** ”

With another pat on the arm, Bifur turned away, back toward the market, whistling.

Thorin did not stop to listen, he turned the key and shoved the door open, sealing himself away in darkness and quiet.

Balin and Dwalin’s flat was even more miserably turned out than their own. Two rooms, separated by the suggestion of a parting wall, a kitchen and a bedroom. One table. Two chairs. And two beds, the ricketier of the pair clearly reserved for Balin since it was about a foot shorter than the other and though Balin was by no means _light_ , he was certainly more careful in his use of furniture than Dwalin who had a tendency, impossible to urge out of him, to _throw_ himself onto obliging beds, sofas, and armchairs and _sprawl._

Thorin, in this instance, was more inclined to follow the example of the elder brother than the younger. He took off his borrowed boots and sat on the end of Dwalin’s bed with his head in his hands, sighing long and low. He should never have gotten out of bed, no matter what his mother said. He should never have brought himself out among other dwarves. Should never have accepted Bifur’s help. Should never have...should never…

“What are you - ” the door to the flat opened and Balin stopped himself speaking almost before he started. “I thought you were Dwalin, for a moment.”

“So long as that?” Thorin asked, not lifting his head from his hands.

“Well, my eyes…” he trailed off, probably wondering what Thorin was doing here, at midday, sitting like a lump upon his brothers’ bed. Apparently content to let the question go unanswered, for the moment, Balin crossed further into the room and dropped something onto the table. The sound made Thorin look up. It sounded like...but then, it couldn’t be…

Peering into the kitchen, Thorin saw that Balin had indeed dropped a stack of _books_ on the table and he stared at them as if he was looking at a treasure hoard. He’d not seen so many since their last winter in the Iron Hills, fifteen years ago.

“Please don’t tell me you’ve turned thief,” Thorin said faintly.

Balin raised an eyebrow and harrumphed, “Stealing books, as if I’d risk the wrath of...anyway. I’ll have you know that I am considered entirely trustworthy by some. These are from the library - _borrowed_ from the library, laddie, so keep your accusations to yourself.”

“How?” Thorin asked, curiosity getting the better of him. Once upon a time, it wouldn’t have been so remarkable, the thought of library books pulling him out of the doldrums. Once upon a time, he’d wanted to be a scholar. Once upon a time.

“Friend of my mother’s,” Balin said lightly. Then made a small grimace and said, “Well, I don’t know how _friendly_ she thought they were, but he remembered her well. Vouched for my character. I have a temporary pass provided that I limit my visits to two a week and I don’t remove more than ten items from the collection at a time. It’s limited my selection to novels, I’m afraid, the law books are chained.”

“Oh,” Thorin said.

Balin studied him for a moment. His lips parted, then closed again, apparently deciding against whatever it was he wanted to say. “Are you...spending the day?”

 _Hiding out,_ Thorin thought, but he didn’t say anything, just shrugged and mumbled, “Dwalin said I could have his bed.”

Balin, wisely, did not reply to this, did not make any inquiries. For he’d known three generations of in-born family melancholy personally and had finally learned to hold his tongue in its presence. Returning shrug for shrug, he nodded off toward the bedroom. “As you will.”

Thorin lay down on Dwalin’s bed, tense and embarrassed to hear Balin shuffling around in the next room. He didn’t feel uncomfortable enough to go back to his mother - he’d have to be lying on a bed of nails before he would consider that - but he wasn’t about to show his face at the forge again. Like as not, Dwalin would ask him whether or not he’d gotten lost and personally march him off to bed himself. And Dís would get that awful frightened look again. That look he couldn’t bear.

Thorin shut his eyes and buried his face in Dwalin’s pillow. Balin’s shuffling stilled and Thorin hoped he was going to take himself out again. If he was sure he was alone, he might find it in himself to get up, take a look at the small collection of books on the kitchen table…

“Ivar Serkrul came of an old stock of the Firebeard nobility. He was born in Nogrod, in the shadow of Mt. Dolmed, which lies more than one hundred miles West of Khazad-dûm. His education was begun by tutors at home in the great family mansion, twenty fathoms below the earth, and he studied later at…”

Balin’s reading aloud ought to have irked him. Ought to have driven him from the place, but it didn’t - perhaps Balin had known it wouldn’t. He had a fine speaking voice and always had a talent for telling tales, even such tales as had been recorded by great authors and not those he crafted with his own tongue. Thorin found much relief in it and eventually fell asleep, lulled by the words of a family whose problems, long ago and far away, bore little similarity to his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the end Balin is quoted a (slightly) butchered version of _Fathers and Sons_ by Ivan Turgenev.


	19. Chapter 19

Thorin came to work the day following. And the day after that. And after that. He took no joy in his labors, but the dwarves of Erebor had long resigned themselves to exchanging true genius in their craft for simple efficiency. And yet he seemed to take no satisfaction from it either, not from work, not from his family, though he could be forgiven the latter. 

Freya had been oddly silent in the wake of her son’s return from his morning of abject despair. Silence was better than scolding, but Dís, terrified of inciting her mother’s rage or prompting her brother’s disappearance, did her best not to disturb either of them. It was a subdued and quiet house they kept. Rarely did they see one another, occasionally they would negotiate the kitchen fire without speaking, the only sound at all the scrape of their knives on their plates as they picked at their meals.

Dís grew so accustomed to the quiet that when, one morning on her way to the forge, she heard her name being called and jumped a mile.

“Sorry!” she and Víli shouted at the same time. Then they smiled and Dís grew slightly pink about the ears and neck. 

Víli, naturally, laughed. “Just the thing, eh? Couple o’dwarves getting spooked in broad daylight. The way Men’d tell it, t’is the dark what’s got a body most frightened.”

Dís only shrugged; light and dark, they were both equally full of terror, she found. Dragonfire and bandits. Feeling slightly embarrassed that she’d been actively avoiding Víli and hadn’t a word to say to him when he came upon her unaware, she shifted her hammer restlessly from one hand to the other and asked, cautiously, “How are you?”

“Fine!” he replied, brightly as ever. “Fine, fine! Fine day, fine lass - ”

“Oh!” Dís interrupted him before he could go on complimenting her (she did not know Víli well, but she thought she knew him well enough that a compliment was surely lurking on his tongue and she’d rather not hear any at the moment). “How’s life in your new lodgings? Has Nori nicked all your hair beads? Your silver combs?”

“Damnedest thing,” Víli chuckled, not minding at all the interruption. “No sooner had I got meself settled in, but a wee magpie must’ve got in after me! Aye so, I’m missing a few baubles, but nothing I’d take him to court over. Usually turn up in the wrong spot once I notice they’re missing.”

“Once he notices he can’t sell them,” Dís muttered, just a trifle irked-sounding. “I’ll crop his ears.”

“Ah, now, there’s no need for a pound o’flesh, I hasn’t brought the matter to court, have I?” Víli tried to stifle his grin, but didn’t quite manage. “Nah, let him sneak himself a trifle here and there, what harm’s it do me, except give me less to keep track of as might go missing on me own account?”

Dís cocked her head at him and stared for a good long while, the hammer stilling in her left hand. She dropped the head against the ground with a ‘thunk.’ “You’re no proper dwarf,” she declared at last. “You sure you’re natural Made? With a bearer and a sire and all that? You sure you’re not wrought of stone and...what’s the phrase? Balin’d know. Summat about eyes that’re set with gems.”

“Beryl,” Víli winked at her. “And hands carved all o’alabaster.” He wriggled his fingers at her. “More’s the pity, I pink up something _awful_ in full sun. Far better to have been wrought in bronze, like your ladyness.”

“Stop it!” Dís exclaimed, complexion darkening further as she flushed. “Stop it, you...ooh, never mind. Never mind.”

“Never mind what?” Víli asked, taking a half-step toward her in concern. “I got that the wrong way round, didn’t I? Ladyship, I thought it was one nor the other, I guessed wrong. Don’t be sore at me, I didn’t mean no harm.”

“But that’s just it!” Dís exclaimed, stamping a very childish foot on the ground in frustration. “You don’t! You’re so _kind_ , I don’t know what to do with you!”

And she would have fled too, had Víli not been whip-quick and grabbed her around one skinny wrist to hold her there. _Poor little bird_ , he thought. Apt to fly away at the first whisper of danger. 

“Ey now,” he said softly, as if she were a nervy pony that might bolt away - or kick him in the chest, which was thoroughly unpleasant. “What’s got to be done, then? If you don’t want me to come ‘round no more, well, that’s one thing, but if you don’t mind having me and mine about, what’s more to be done?”

Dís twisted her arm a little under his broad fingers, but didn’t try to pull away. “I just don’t understand,” she said more to her feet than to Víli. “No one’s as nice as you are. Not in the whole world. You and Thyra and Bifur and Bofur and Missus Sayra and all. And I don’t know what you want because you must want _something._ What do you want?”

“Just a new acquaintance is all - or a flock of ‘em,” Víli smiled up at her sincerely. “We’re simple folk, us.”

“But why?” Dís pressed him.

“‘Cos a body can’t have too many friends is why,” Víli released her arm, satisfied she wouldn’t buck or kick. “Honestly, lass, you needn’t be worried about what you and yours can do for me and mine. We’ve all got roofs enough and food and drink enough for everyone. S’just nice to have good folks to share it with, is all. Promise.”

Dís glanced at him doubtfully. “But...I don’t think we’re as good as all that. Everyone hates us. And I caused all sorts of trouble - ”

“Oh, lass, if you want to know who wrote the book on trouble, look no further than meself and me kinsman Bofur,” Víli replied rolling his eyes. “We set our mas and das a-wailing and a-scolding more times than I can count on me fingers and toes.”

“It’s not the same,” Dís maintained.

“Sure it is,” Víli replied easily. “And as to that first point - I don’t know anyone who hates you, lass. Not a soul. And I’m a _very_ well acquainted dwarf, you’ll own.”

That much was true. Every time Dís accompanied Víli through town it seemed there wasn’t a head that turned but to wish him good-day and he called every last one of them by name. He _was_ a popular fellow, but Dís heard her mother talk, heard Balin and Thorin when they’d been in the tents, worrying over whether or not they’d be allowed to settle and how long. They thought she was asleep, but she heard. 

And yet here was Víli. Who’d been nothing but kind to them since the moment he set eyes on them. Who introduced them to his kinsfolk and friends who, likewise, had been the sweetest, most generous dwarves she had ever met. She’d been so eager to get to know them, to make friends with them. Had she been too naive? Too trusting? It was just so hard to believe that they would be the center of all this good will after everything they’d been through. After everything they’d done. 

Tears sprang to her eyes and Dís stubbornly blinked them away. It would be easier to tell if they’d had Frerin. Frerin could make friends as quick as snapping his fingers. Everyone was fond of him - even when he caused terrible trouble, everyone was fond of him, their mother especially. She and Thorin weren’t like that. It wasn’t the usual thing for dwarves to go out of their way to court their friendship. When she’d been a child, she counted on her brothers, on her mother and father, to tell her who was genuinely kind natured and who to avoid. But standing on this road, just her and Víli, she’d nothing but her own wits to go on. After so much time on the road, with only her family for company, she could not decided whether she was a good judge of character or not.

“Come here,” Víli said, opening his arms for an embrace. “I won’t go grabbing you again. But lass, you look like you need it.”

Her mother would never have approved. But Dís found she could not mind very much about it as she sank into Víli’s arms and was treated to a warm, tight embrace. It didn’t last too long, only a few seconds before he patted her back and let her go, but she felt better all the same. 

“We’ll see you down the river for Thyra’s Name Day, I hope?” he asked casually, as if she hadn’t just blubbered all over him and questioned his earthly mettle. “You and yours? Come for the food, if not for the company.”

Dís opened her mouth, apologies about ready to tumble forth like a runaway cart, but he winked and she knew he was teasing her. She felt well enough to tease back, though only a little.

“For the food, aye,” she replied with a small smile. “You might want nothing of us, but we’ve admired Missus Sayra’s fare since we got here.”

“Ha!” Víli laughed merrily, slapping her on the back. “That’s reason enough for anyone to settle West, eh? I’ll tell her too, tell her that’s why you come, she’ll be tickled! Got to be on me way lass, but I hope I see you ‘fore long! You and that brother o’yours and that cousin - aye, and don’t you think he fooled me for a _minute_. Cotton-hearted. Soft, is what he is, at the core. Sweet as honey!”

“Well, of _course_ ,” Dís grinned, her face feeling odd at the pull of it. “That’s Dwalin through and through.”

It was with a lighter heart that she made her way to the forge whistling, if it can be relieved. Thorin, who had arrived earlier by minutes, if the fire was to be believed, smiled to hear her. “That’s a cheery tune,” he remarked. 

His face had a grey, ashen quality to it; she knew he hadn’t been sleeping well. But the smile was something. 

“Mmm,” Dís nodded. “So it is. Are we going to Thyra’s Name Day or aren’t we?”

Dwalin, who had been outside chopping wood, paused in his work and snorted so loud they heard him through the closed door. 

“Ah…” Thorin began uncertainly. He rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand and settled the other on his hip. Frerin called it his ‘thinking pose.’ “Haven’t thought much on it. Do you want to go?”

“I do!” she said, perhaps a bit too emphatically because Dwalin laughed again. “Very much. But...I won’t go if you won’t go.”

“She drives a hard bargain,” Dwalin poked his head in the side door and Thorin gestured him away.

“I don’t recall her asking you,” he said, but there was no fire in his voice.

“I’m going,” Dwalin said firmly. “I don’t care what - hmm. I think a bit of diversion would be good and as I haven’t pocket change enough for the horse races, I’ll settle on some free food and drink. Spot of dancing wouldn’t go amiss if you ask me.”

“But no one _did_ ,” Thorin muttered, looking away as if the answer he wanted was written on the back of the awning. 

“Please?” Dís asked hopefully. “Please say you’ll go? We needn’t stay long, just enough to wish her well and give her a present. I don’t think it needs to be much.”

“ _Please?_ ” Dwalin echoed, drawing the word out like a dwarfling of fifteen. “ _Please_ , Thorin? _Pleeeeeeease_?”

Thorin wasn’t able to put up much of a defense against their dual begging. “We can stop by for a bit. It’d be impolite not to, her having issued the invitation herself.”

“Thank you!” Dís shouted, jumping on Thorin in her excitement and hugging him about the neck. 

“Careful, lass!” Thorin scolded, catching her easily. “You’ll have us both in the fire.”

Dwalin chuckled, “If you ask me - ”

“But no one did!” Thorin laughed, setting Dís back on her feet and kissing her cheek. “Alright, alright. So long as they don’t expect us to turn out anything special. No new coats or gold bracelets.”

“I don’t think they expect aught from us,” Dís smiled happily. “Just company. Good company.”

“Oh, lass,” Dwalin sighed dramatically. “I’m afraid we’re out, then. It’d be easier for us to turn tin to silver than for Thorin to qualify as _good_ company.”

Thorin was about to retort, either verbally or with a good hard sock on the jaw was anyone’s guess when the side door of the forge flew open and a whirlwind of redhaired fury flew in.

“I _order_ you to attend Thyra’s Name Day,” Hervor announced, grabbing Dís by the wrist and tugging her away from Dwalin and Thorin, who she glared up at heartily. “And if either of you try to talk her out of it, I’ll have _both_ your bea - ah. Hrm. I’ll shave your eyebrows. I swear it.”

Dwalin and Thorin looked at one another, then raised their hands, backing away slowly.

“That settles it,” Thorin said.

“She’ll have to go,” Dwalin nodded. 

Hervor, smugly satisfied, smiled and linked her arm with Dís’s. “My adad’s prepared to tell your ama a whole ream of lies. He’ll say you’re dining with us and if she comes after you, he’ll defend it, tell her we’re in the privy. Or smash her on the head with a candlestick so she can’t make a scene.”

“Did he?” Thorin asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Hervor blew her hair out of her eyes impatiently. “Well, he mightn’t have said the last bit, but he did say you deserve a night out. And more to the point, I deserve a night out and I won’t have any fun if I know you’re stuck at home being miserable.”

“Just her?” Dwalin asked, feigning outrage. “What about us? I don’t see you rushing in here claiming we’ve got to have a night out.”

“You’re both grown,” Hervor replied primly. “And if you want to stay in and make a sad evening of it, I won’t stop you, it isn’t my place, but I’ll burn your eyebrows straight off if you force my poor cousin to wile the hours away just as you do.”

“I thought you said you’d shave our eyebrows,” Thorin reminded her.

“You’ve got two, haven’t you?” Hervor replied challengingly. “For now.”

“Vicious little thing, isn’t she?” Dwalin remarked. Hervor stuck her tongue out at him ferociously. “And suppose we take it upon ourselves to come along, eh? Suppose we decide we need a night out?”

“Then you’re neither of you as stupid as you pretend to be,” Hervor said haughtily. “It’s a week tomorroweve - and save a penny for the baths, won’t you? Haven’t you got a clean shirt between you? You two look a _sight_ , especially you, Thorin. Smarten up. If you come looking like something that’s been rolling around in the ashes, I’ll claim I don’t know you, king, kinsmen, or kindred.”

And with that, Hervor gave Dís a kiss on the cheek, turned on her heel and stalked out. A moment of silence followed. Then Thorin spoke up.

“Might close the forge six days hence. Have a laundry day. A few clean shirts’d do us all good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hervor believes in tough love. Víli just believes in love. Either way, things are looking a little better!


	20. Chapter 20

A sharp rapping on the door when unnoticed until it turned into an unmistakable pounding.

“Get that, would you, dear?” Irpa requested of Dori as she worked, tongue poking out between her teeth to tighten the weave on the loom. 

Dori had been relegated to the task of ‘tool holder,’ since, though his mother appreciated his skills at weaving, embroidery, and crocheting, she openly admitted that she felt herself to be the better tinker of the two of them. 

And, apparently, a better butler. With only the mildest of put-upon sighs, Dori made his way to the front door, squaring his shoulder, perfectly prepared to do battle with whatever peddler had come their way and sought to sell his wares door-to-door. Dori had no patience with such conduct; if he was of a mind to purchase something, he was perfectly capable of taking himself to the market _thank you_ and if he needed a new set of skinning blades, he had his own smith, thank you _very_ much. 

Not that he had made himself a frequent patron of Thorin’s forge. The family’s knives were looking a little dull and his knitting needles had seen better days, but he had not quite been able to force himself to make the journey across town. He felt slightly guilty - if he had money to spare, should he not be spending it in his king’s own smithy? But all traces of guilt were quite put out of his mind when he found little Dís upon his doorstep.

“Oh, don’t _tell_ me you’ve begun door-knocking,” he groaned.

The girl looked confused, “Did you want me to just barge in?”

Dori closed his eyes briefly; alas, the royal family were not overly blessed intellectually. Skilled in war and craft, undoubtedly. Skilled in mind? Well, one could not be possessed of every noble virtue.

“No, of course not,” he sighed. “Come in, come in - what have you come _for?_ ”

She stomped in without the good grace to wipe her feet on the mat that he had so kindly provided for her. Boot-scrapers and cunningly sewn burlap sacks were Mannish, to be sure, but better to adopt foreign customs than to let one tread all over one’s clean floor with muddy boots. As the aforementioned princess was doing without a care in the world. Dori closed his eyes briefly and counted backwards from five.

“Er, I was just...erm, is Nori about? Or your Ma?” Dís asked, chewing her bottom lip. “I’ve got an invitation for the lot of you - well, I’m passing it along, it’s not my invitation.”

Dori was going to ask her what she was about and when she’d taken the post as town messenger and _who_ invited them to a fete - when his mother came downstairs, eyes lighting up the moment she set eyes on their visitor.

“Dís!” she exclaimed, running forward to embrace her. “Oh, my _dear_ girl, I’d given you up for a prisoner!”

Dís’s dark-complexioned, sunburned cheeks turned a trifle darker and she shrugged. “Nah. Not really. Er. Actually, I’m just staying for a moment, I just wanted to tell you that my - my friend Thyra’s turning seventy-five and she told me especially to tell folks I knew who’d like a good meal and some good fun to stop by. She’s having a party down by the river in a week. Her Da’s closing down his shop early - he’s the baker in the high street - ”

“I’ve met him!” Irpa exclaimed, smiling in a way that made Dori roll his eyes. “Pity all the good looking fellows in the West are either married or too young - ah! Speak and he comes.”

Dori closed his eyes and counted from ten as Víli burst in, similarly filthy, declined to wipe his feet and filled the house with shouting about what a merry gathering he’d walked into and what a _treat_ it was to see his favorite smithy. It would do no good to appeal his mother about how they were losing the light and they had more work to do; his mother would ever prefer conversation to craft.

“Glad to see you’ve taken the lead,” Víli grinned at Dís. “Inviting them to Thyra’s to-do and all. I were just about to do it meself!”

“Oh, good,” Dís sighed with relief. “She said to ask along any friends of ours as well, I wasn’t...I’m glad it’s alright.”

“‘Course it is!” Víli said as he made his way to wash up. “There’s food a-plenty and it’s all got to be eaten, hasn’t it?”

Dori did not at all approve of this. Any of it. It was all very well at _home_ when one was invited to a party or a feast being given in honor of so-and-so’s cousin such-and-such by way of some mutual acquaintance you shared. But this was different, it was the West, as far from Erebor as it was to get without crossing the sea. And there weren’t connections closer than ten generations to connect these Broadbeam and Firebeard dwarves to the house of Durin. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t feel right,” he demurred, shaking his head. “Nor would Nori, I’d wager. You know how he is among stranger - ”

“Will there be cake?”

Quick as a cat and thrice as sly was Nori, for he’d managed to sidle into the sitting room without making a peep. Nearly frightened Dori out of his skin, then dodged away when his elder brother tried to swat him for creeping.

Dís (who must have seen him, but gave no sign, the devilish miss) laughed and rolled her eyes, “They’re _bakers_ , of course they’ll be cake! Lots.”

“Oh, aye,” Víli agreed, bending a bit at the waist to look Nori in the eye. “All sorts! Why I’ve had...oh, a _dozen_ or more I could name, one of ‘em’s bound to strike your fancy. They got sponges soaked in rum from the South, so sweet it’ll rot all them teeth out o’that head o’yours. Creams what got vanilla speckled inside, like pepper, piled thick as this.” Here, he demonstrated by holding his thumb and forefinger about three inches apart. If Dori licked his lips, it was a sign of annoyance, not anticipation. 

“Ooh, and Mister Alfi makes one up special, little cakes what he lets sit in strong-brewed coffee - “

But before he could go on about it anymore Dís grabbed his arm and said, “You’ve got to tell Thorin, I’m worried he won’t come, but he’s got to and there’s nothing’ll get him roused quicker than coffee.”

“I’ll be off with you in a trice, if you want,” Víli replied, just as eagerly. “Oh, but young Nori, wait ‘til you hears about the biscuits - ”

But Nori did not need to hear about anything. He seized his mother’s hand, bouncing up and down on his toes and insisted, “We’re going Ama, aren’t we? Say we’re going! PLEASE!”

Dori was quite bowled over; Nori never said _please_ , he’d been nagging him about it for years. All insolence was his younger brother, but evidently, all he’d had to do to brighten his disposition was to offer him cake. Pity there hadn’t been any, all those years on the road. 

“Of course!” Irpa replied, kissing Nori on the brow. “It would be rude to turn down such a generous invitation! Ooh, but what to bring?”

“You needn’t trouble yourself over that, missus,” Víli said at once. “No more nor you can, eh? Thyra’s a kindly lass, and not too fussy. Don’t hardly wear rings ‘cos of her craft and I don’t know when last I seen her don a bracelet or anything o’that sort. Don’t wear much in her hair ‘sides ribbons neither.”

“I haven’t any silk,” Irpa said to herself thoughtfully. “Hmm. But a bit of fine wool shouldn’t be too hard to come by.”

“Whatever you can manage, missus, and no fretting,” Víli insisted. “I haven’t decided meself and we’re coming up fast on the day.”

Well, as _ever_ it was abundantly evident that all minds had been made up without a peep out of Dori, so he kept his mouth shut, lips pursed. Strange, the way they did things in the West, inviting strangers to parties, wearing silk ribbons in their hair rather than gold or silver. Dori wasn’t sure he liked this way of doing things - but then, no one asked him, did they? No, no one ever asked him. 

Without excusing himself, he left the household and marched himself straight over to the forge where his king toiled away his days in the West. Except that he didn’t appear to be toiling. He appeared to be lounging, chatting with Dwalin and eating _cakes._

“What are you _doing_?” Dori squawked. Yes. Squawked. Perhaps he was not as sanguine as he thought himself to be.

Thorin and Dwalin exchanged a look, then, as if they shared a brain between them (and honestly, Dori would not be surprised if they did) shrugged as one. 

“Eating,” Dwalin said finally. “Want one?”

As a matter of fact, Dori had not breakfasted and was feeling a mite peckish, but he refused, admirably. “No. Thank you. Do you know where your sister is, by chance?”

“I thought she was headed down your way,” Thorin said, spraying crumbs as he talked. “Said she wanted to ask Nori sommat.”

As if it was natural as anything. Well, Thorin had never been particularly popular - socially, Dori well recalled. If it wasn’t a feast thrown by his grandfather or some drunken foolishness dreamed up by the Guard, he rarely saw him in attendance at parties. Dori, of course, had been _very_ popular, once upon a time. Perhaps he ought to remind Thorin of the finer points of social niceties.

“Aye, so she did,” Dori huffed impatiently. “She and our lodger - I don’t suppose you know, we’ve taken a lodger, well, my mother has, she’s eccentric - ”

“Víli, aye,” Dwalin nodded, something like a grin playing around his mouth. “Oh, we know him alright, he chatted your ear off yet?”

That threw Dori for a bit of a loop. “You know our - oh, nevermind. I don’t suppose either of you thought it pertinent to inform your little protege that, in general, one invites guests to one’s Name Day themself - or via messenger.”

Dwalin and Thorin exchanged another of those glances, which seemed to contain ten minutes of conversation a piece. “Well, she’s busy mornings,” Dwalin informed him. “Their shop’s humming near all hours and it’s a family business, they haven’t got many working under ‘em.”

“Hiring a messenger’s expensive,” Thorin added. “Why do you think I’ve been back and forth so much? They send a messenger, saying they want to talk of this or that and I hie back on foot, so I don’t have to pay for his return. No wonder they’ve been giving us sweets gratis.”

“Not worth it, for a party,” Dwalin echoed. “Sure you don’t want a cake? We haven’t paid for it, Thorin just said, Missus Sayra’s been trying out a few recipes for her daughter’s to-do, wanted to know what we thought.”

Dori closed his eyes and counted backward from ten. Oh, these _Guardsmen_. These poor, naive, hopeless Guardsmen. They were doomed here in the West. Utterly doomed. 

“She gave you the work of her own hands - _gifted_ it to you - just because she wanted to see how they’d turned out?” he asked, leaving off the _How stupid can you be?_ from his speech, but he hoped he heard it regardless. 

“Aye, she’s done it before, if you can believe it,” Thorin replied and, oh, why, _certainly_ Dori could believe it. “Said her wee ones have their favorites and only want her making the same things over and over. She thought we’d be more objective.”

“There’s one done up with apples and poppy seeds that we haven’t finished off,” Dwalin added. “That one’s the best.”

“No, it’s not,” Thorin countered. “I liked the one with the molasses and cinnamon, only you can’t try that one, we finished it off.”

“That’s why I didn’t offer it to him,” Dwalin thwapped Thorin on the back of the head with sugar-encrusted fingers. “Have a little tact.”

Dori was quiet a long, long time. He was actually counting backwards from fifty, but Thorin - poor, dense Thorin - seemed to think he was actually miffed about the cake.

“She might have more?” Thorin suggested. “You’d have to ask.”

Ask. As if it would just be given to him. As if it wasn’t tantamount to begging and as if they’d never simply been _given_ anything since the Mountain fell. Of course, as king Thorin would be offered all sorts of little somethings to court favor, but not a weaver. No, no, not a simple weaver with no pretensions to title. 

“I don’t. Want. Cake,” Dori said at last. “What do you really know about this family? By the hammers of our ancestors, we’ve not been here above a sixmonth, and you’re being invited to their parties?”

“Dís swept their chimney,” Thorin shrugged. “They took a liking to us afterward.”

Seventy-five. Seventy-four. Seventy-three. Seventy-two. Seventy-one…

“Did you ever think - “ Dori began abruptly, sedately, he thought, but he didn’t get beyond that. Dwalin took the opportunity to strike, viper-quick and shoved a piece of cake in his mouth. 

At first, Dori didn’t even register that it was cake, he thought that Dwalin had shoved him with the flat of his hand, like a fifteen-year-old would strike out at another child that wanted its favorite toy. He was _quite_ indignant until he felt the sugary crust melting on his tongue, the scrape of seeds between his teeth and the not-quite-crunch of apples that had been baked to softness, but didn’t give like oatmeal. 

It wouldn’t do to spit it out, undignified, over their stall counter. So, Dori chewed. Swallowed. And decided, then and there, that perhaps he would like to stop by this party after all. Just for a few minutes. For a bite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Party, party, party!


	21. Chapter 21

Despite Víli’s repeated reassurances that Thyra required no great profusion of gifts and would be happy with a handful of hair ribbons sold for a penny, Thorin was determined to do something more. A bracelet, made of silver, if nothing else. He, Dwalin, and Dís had just enough spending money between them (allowing for just a bit pilfered from their own coffers) to buy enough to make a bangle that would look well worn in conjunction with other bands. They were not quite sure what was her taste, being up to one’s elbows in flour all day meant that Thyra seldom wore rings or bracelets on working days.

The problem was not in procuring materials, it turned out, but in finding the tools to turn them into something fitting. The tools that hung around the forge were intended for heavy work, the mending of tools and the shaping of weapons. Not a one of them had been trained in dainty tasks, though Dís had a better eye for close work than either of them. They’d been apprenticed as weapon-smiths, not jewelers. But Thorin was determined to try.

“I could go borrowing,” he grimaced. “Or get a loan on some tools. I just haven’t collateral to pawn...well…”

The only real heirloom he had was his own sword, Deathless. Held fast in his hand as the fire from the great beast warmed his cheeks and seemed to flame down the back of his neck as he ran from their home. But no one would take it, he knew. It was too precious for a Western pawnbroker to accept as collateral.

“You’ll not find a taker from here to the Misty Mountains,” Dwalin shook his head, seeming to read his thoughts. “Not unless they mean to swindle you, then we’ll have a court case on our hands when we bloody him up taking it back.”

Thorin sighed and rubbed his eyes.

“You couldn’t stamp something pretty with what we’ve got?” Dís asked, eyeing the smallest punches hopefully.

“You think too much of my skill, lass,” Thorin shook his head. “We could send out to have it done.”

Silence met that proposal. Little was there more humiliating to a master smith than to allow another to do what ought to be his own work. Besides, they’d spent their coin procuring the raw materials, they hadn’t any left over to pay another for the job.

“I’ll think of something,” Thorin reassured Dís. “Thyra’ll have her present.”

But by nightfall he hadn’t thought of a plan that was workable other than, ‘Well, perhaps the lassie will overlook a poorly rendered bauble.’

The house was dark and quiet, as ever it was Dís and Thorin returned in the evenings. Their mother was nowhere to be seen, but neither gave a thought that she might have gone out. The door to her room was locked and she was behind it, of that they were sure.

“She’s probably sleeping,” Thorin spoke aloud. “Quietly now.”

They both removed their boots at the door and scrubbed the last of the forge filth from their arms and faces with minimal splashing. Supper that night was old bread cooked over a fire with oil, hard sausage and half a sorry-looking onion. They ate quietly at the kitchen table, both conscious of the empty chair between them.

“Would earings have been easier?” Dís asked. “To make, I mean.”

Thorin shook his head. “Not unless she’d stretched her earlobes, her ears are needle-punched and nothing more. It’d be too fine a hook for our tools.”

“Oh,” Dís said quietly, forcing the hardest bits of bread down into the meagre fat that was rendered from the sausage. “We could give her it plain, I suppose.”

“I suppose,” Thorin echoed. “It’s something, anyway. Who knows, she might take a look at it and say she’s very sorry, but she doesn’t favor ornaments at the wrist - I’m joking, lass, I’m joking, I’m sure she’d never be so callous.”

Thorin reached over to pet Dís’s hand which had frozen over her supper. What an insult, the refusal of a gift freely given. What a horrible thought - that Thyra would invite them to the celebration, only to shame them over the present.

“You don’t think - ?” she began, but Thorin shook his head adamantly negative.

“No, I don’t, finish your supper, now,” he replied.

“You didn’t even know what I was going to ask!”

“I did,” he said. “For it’s something I’ve thought myself and I won’t have you turning your thoughts sour - leave the worrying to me, won’t you? It’s what I’m best at.”

Dís smiled and finished her supper. It was true - at least, Hervor’s brother Heidrek used to say so all the time.

_”Not good for much, our Thorin, but damn me if he’s not the best worrier this side of the Misty Mountains!”_

Frerin always came to his rescue, _“Not so! Give my brother some credit, he’s not_ just _the best worrier, he’s also gloomiest dwarf as ever grew a beard!_

Thorin would always pretend to be annoyed, _“You’re both awful.”_

And then they’d chime as one, _”Aye, you_ _would think that.”_

But there was no chorus of teasing voices to reply to Thorin’s pronouncement. The two finished their supper in silence and washed their dishes quietly before going to bed. As they walked past their mother’s door, Dís paused.

“You don’t think…”

The question went unasked, but Thorin knew what it was without her speaking. Their mother was a worthy jeweler, she made pieces that fetched thousands. Over the long years of their exile, she’d plied her trade largely as a mender of baubles on the road, but as far as either of them knew, she’d kept her tools.

“I think it’s best not to ask,” Thorin said, putting his arm around her and kissing her brow. “Come. To bed. It’ll work out, one way or another.”

A few months ago, the ‘or another’ portion of Thorin’s thinking would have been wrapped up in the safe action of simply not going. Of sending their regrets. And, accordingly, cooling their relationship with their Broadbeam neighbors.

But that was a different time, almost as far removed from his memory as Erebor was. Thorin kindled slow to friendship, but even he was finding it hard to recollect that Víli had not, for some time longstanding, wasted their mornings at the forge in chatter, that Bofur hadn’t tried out half a dozen new and terrible jokes on them all before finding one that made Dwalin smile, that Bombur hadn’t stumbled through five or more titles before he finally agreed to simply call Thorin ‘Thorin.’ And that Bifur hadn’t always had the ability to tilt his head, gaze at Thorin knowingly and inquire whether or not all was well.

They had been invited to a party thrown by some of the most generous-hearted dwarves he knew. Sayra smiled bright enough to light a cave when he came in to buy a meal, crying, “Thorin! How well you’re looking - but you could still stand to loosen that belt, I’m making your coffee with cream,” as if she was a well-meaning auntie. Alfi always asked him what the news was ‘round the forge, then supplied him with five conversations worth of gossip about dwarves Thorin did not know and would not speak of if he did.

And he’d not deprive Dís of Thyra any more than he’d think to cut off her relationship with Hervor. The girl deserved friends. She deserved to be happy. Even in his darkest moments when his hatred of himself was absolute, he’d never wanted anything less for her. And if that meant that he was going to make some friends along the way, that he would have some undeserved happiness himself, so be it. He could socialize a bit, if only for her sake. And he could beg, borrow, and steal if it meant making Thyra something pretty to wear when she had cause.

Thorin slept lightly most nights, but usually he didn’t startle into wakefulness. So it was when the sound of his bedroom door creaking open roused him. At first he thought Dís was only going to the necessary, but his bleary eyes made out her form, curled under her blankets, easily enough. Who, then - ?

Thorin squeezed his eyes shut. For an instant, he was transported.

When he was very small - not so small that his memories were foggy, but still small enough to expect a kiss and a story before bedtime - his father decided he was quite old enough for that sort of thing and sent him to bed with little more than a stern command. His mother, when she was home, took pity on him and carried him into his room from the sitting room, read him a story and favored him with a kiss and a cuddle to drop off.

Every once in a while, however, when his mother was not home and Thorin was not sleeping easy, his father would venture into his room. He wouldn’t say anything and Thorin quickly learned that if he sat up in bed, he’d face a reprimand for not being asleep. So he stayed quiet, feigned sleep and sometimes was treated to a brief kiss or the sensation of his covers being tucked more tightly around him. He usually fell asleep much faster after that.

But that was his father. Not his mother, who - though easily exasperated by her children - never left them doubting her affection. How things changed.

There was no kiss, no caress awaiting Thorin and Dís. Just the soft thud of something being laid by his head and the whisper-soft pad of feet quickly making an exit.

Thorin scarcely breathed. Once he heard the near-silent sound of his mother’s door being closed, he groped in the darkness and snatched up what she’d left, as if afraid she’d come back and take it away again.

His heart thudded in his chest as his eyes confirmed what his fingers knew. His mother’s toolkit, supple leather folded and tied neatly, every piece in place perfectly polished. He squeezed his eyes shut again and bit his tongue, hard to stave off weeping. He would wake his sister and he did not want her to see what Freya had done.

When he was in control of his tears and his breathing, he got up and placed the kit deep in the pocket of his coat. Dís wouldn’t go in there, nor would Dwalin. He’d pick out those pieces he needed to use and put them back. Much easier to pretend he’d pawned away something small for a few pieces to use on a long afternoon. And if she didn’t see them all together, Dís would never know to whom they belonged. And, if she was a clever girl, as determined to seek happiness for herself as Thorin was to hand it to her, she would never ask, even if she had an inkling from where they came.

* * *

 

“I’ll never be pretty as you,” Dís said flatly as Hervor arranged her hair.

“‘Course you won’t,” Hervor said easily. “As you’re pretty in your own right - ach, don’t twitch so!”

Dís had craned her head around to raise her eyebrows at Hervor skeptically. Her cousin was all meaty forearms and soft hips. Dís herself resembled nothing more than a broad-shouldered broomstick come alive.

“Everyone says I look like Thorin and everyone says Thorin’s got a face like a knife.”

Hervor rapped Dís sharply on the back of her head with the hairbrush. “Tush. _Heidrek_ said that and Heidrek isn’t everyone.”

 _But Heidrek was handsome,_ Dís thought but did not say. Heidrek was handsome as his sister was pretty. They took after their mother Heidrun who was a great friend of Freya’s. Was. Hervor’s father Vigg was handsome too, and he stood in the doorway, rolling his eyes at the pair of them.

“Leave your brother alone,” Vigg said, out of habit, probably. If Heidrek could hear them, they could not hear any retort he might make back. “You’re both bonny lassies - it’s only too bad you haven’t anything near fine enough to dress your hair and beards, that’s all.”

“It’s not a fine party, Da - and you can come if you want, I’ve told you a hundred times you ought to,” Hervor said. Her father was generous in allowing them the use of his butcher shop for the purpose of hair dressing, having a steady supply of clean water for two young ladies who couldn’t afford the baths, but he’d denied any interest in attending their friend’s party.

“I’ll be alright, you girls enjoy yourselves - where are the lads? Don’t tell me Thorin got cold feet,” Vigg groused. “I mightn’t say a word to the lad about his face, but his good humor - ”

“He’s _coming_ ,” Hervor rolled her eyes and tugged a little harder at Dís’s hair to make it lie flat (red ribbons, she’d decided would look well with her few silver hair beads). “And Dwalin. And _Balin_ , so you won’t be the only ancient dwarf about - ”

“Ha!” Vigg laughed. “Balin, ancient? I might not have been married when he was born, but I was well on my way to making a name for myself in the Guard when he was a squalling babe. Don’t you let him fool you, he’s just as young and foolish as the rest of you.”

“Oh, not _foolish_ ,” Dís insisted. “Balin knows everything.”

“His mother knew everything,” Vigg said flatly. “And his uncle _thought_ he knew everything, and that’s where Balin gets his wits from.”

“Uncle Gróin?” Dís asked, confused.

Vigg stroked his short beard thoughtfully, “Do you know, you’re right, lass? That’s not who I was thinking of, but aye, you’re right.”

Before Dís could make more inquiries, Hervor pronounced her fit as a fiddle and bonny as anything, pushing her toward the door. “If Thorin’s still fussing over that bracelet and hasn’t gotten himself cleaned up, I’ll have his hands,” she threatened.

But there was no need to worry. Thorin and Dwalin (their hair was, as ever, not quite polished up to her tastes, but they were both wearing clean shirts, which was something) were waiting outside the door for them when they emerged.

“That looks nice,” Dwalin said, admiring Dís’s hair. He reached out a hand to get a better feeling for Hervor’s handiwork, but she smacked him away.

“Don’t! If you knew how long it took me to work in those braids, you wouldn’t even think to try!”

Dwalin apologized and Thorin smiled, complimenting both girls on how well they looked. Dís darkened a bit at the cheeks and thanked him, but Hervor huffed and rolled her eyes.

“You could look half so nice if you just told me you needed someone to do your hair,” she informed Thorin.

“Dwalin did it,” he replied, as if that was an adequate explanation. Of course it wasn’t, but as he’d been so put-upon lately, Hervor bit her tongue and let it go. With some difficulty, but she managed it.

The sun was still blazing in the sky, but the festivities appeared to be well under way. Bildr’s eldest son was there, along with three kegs of ale and as many of mead. Lura was among the thronging multitudes, but tellingly, there was no sign of her sister Oura anywhere. But even more impressive than the array of dwarves was the _food_.

Feasting tables were nowhere to be seen, but it appeared as though every member of Thyra’s extended family had dragged the dining tables from their families’ homes and set them out by the river. There were dozens of tables with portions of meat enough to feed a hundred dwarves twice over, to say nothing of the cakes.

 

“Whoa.”

Nori had sneaked up on Dís’s left side and wiggled his way under her arm. She chided him for sneaking, but grinned down at him and asked, “Glad you came?”

“Well…” he drawled, “I can’t say. Haven’t had them yet, have I?”

“Believe me, young Nori,” Víli declared passionately, “them cakes’ll be in your _dreams_ for weeks to come - ‘least aways ‘til Alfi gets his winter spices ordered. They make the tastiest spice cake you’ve ever had!”

“I’ve never had spice cake,” Nori replied.

“Well, the tastiest spice cake you’re likely to find,” Víli continued carelessly. “No need to try any from another baker for they’ll all pale in comparison - ”

“Oh, is that so, you wee scamp?” Sayra asked, sharp ears catching any word of her product, for good or ill. “And how many other bake shops have you been spending your coin in, hmm? Coin that could come to us and be better spent?”

“Why, none!” Víli raised his hand and placed it over his heart. “On me honor, missus! Only, you know, in all honesty I got to admit that me Auntie Catla used to make a spice cake once a season and I couldn’t hardly turn it down, could I?”

“Ooh, you set me mouth to watering!” Bofur and Bombur and Bifur descended on them, Bofur leading the way, as usual. “Talking on me Ma’s cakes! ‘Course, Missus Sayra’s got a blessed touch, sure she has, but there’s just something to be said for the baking of your Ma’s own oven, eh?”

“There surely is,” she agreed, good-naturedly. “Welcome, welcome! Help yourselves - me cousin and his sons are fair fiddlers, we’ll have dancing soon, but we mean to have you fed up and with a drink in hand before!”

“If we’re to hand one in hand whilst we’re dancing, how many are we to have in our bellies ‘fore the festivities start?” Víli asked with a twinkle in his eye.

“Why, you?” Sayra asked, all astonishment. “None, my lad! None. For you can’t pluck that gittern of yours with your hands full and neither can that damnable cousin play upon his pipe. I’m sore sorry, but it’ll be a dry night for you lads!”

Their faces shone with identical expressions of horror and Sayra left them, laughing merrily to herself.

“What have I missed?” Balin joined them then, a perplexed expression on his face; he hated to be uninformed about anything, no matter how trifling.

“Víli and Bofur are to be given water and naught else to drink,” Thorin smiled. “As they’re musical.”

“Lucky me,” Balin replied, glancing them over with a wry expression, “I’ve not ears, nor hands, nor a throat for song - where does that leave you, then?”

 

Thorin spread his hands wide, “I can drink as I like, for I haven’t brought anything to play.”

“Thorin!” Bofur shouted. “You’re brilliant!” And he removed his pipe from his inner coat pocket and threw it into the crowd.

“Is this me present?” Thyra, who caught it one-handed, shouted over the general noise. Bofur groaned. “And here I was thinking you were giving your gift by way of music tonight!”

“I was, I was,” Bofur groaned. “Give it here! I clean forgot!”

Bifur laughed and signed, _You would forget your hair -_

“If it weren’t attached, I knows, I knows,” Bofur sighed melodramatically. He took his pipe from Thyra, kissed both her cheeks and announced, “Joyous Name Day! Don’t worry, I’ll play - but let me have a drink first, hmm?”

“Oh, alright,” she giggled. “As it’s me own day, I suppose I get to make the rules! You and Víli can run off for grog - but I want you playing twice as loud and twice as merry for it.”

“That we can promise!” Víli vowed as he kissed her as well. “So long’s you don’t want us to play in tune!”

Embraces, kisses, and well-wishes followed as Thyra was introduced to the dwarves among Clan Longbeard who she was not already acquainted with.

“Nori!” she exclaimed when he gave her a short stiff bow. “I heard so much on you! I got just the lass for you to meet - that wee girl there, with the yellow curls who looks like she swallowed hot coals - that’s me sister Myra, I think you two’d get on.”

“Let’s go meet her, then,” Irpa said enthusiastically. She took Nori by the hand, which he resisted mightily. One might have wondered why she was so eager to introduce Nori to new friends - until one realized that Myra was being attended to by her father, whose acquaintance Irpa was all too happy to renew.

“My mother,” Dori mumbled resentfully under his breath.

“Is a diamond,” Dwalin finished pleasantly. He grabbed him by the elbow and marched him toward the kegs. “Come along, can’t let the musicians have all the fun, can we - ach, where’s Thorin?”

Much less delicate, Dwalin grabbed Thorin in a headlock and dragged both him and Dori toward the refreshments. Balin followed behind, looking infinitely more dignified than the lot of them.

“Have you met my younger brothers yet?” Thyra asked Hervor and Dís. When they replied that they hadn’t, she insisted they all get to know one another and Bifur and Bombur followed along, declaring that it had been ages since they’d see the little ones, Bifur hinting that there might be presents for them on Durin’s Day if they could think of something they wanted him to make.

It was more food than Clan Longbeard had seen assembled in one places in years. Not since those long-ago winters in the Iron Hills, ever conscious that they were guests and not entirely welcome ones at that, they never took more than the smallest portions, conscious of not wanting to be a strain. But this was a party, one they had been invited to and welcomed into, gladly.

Once Bofur and Víli had three drinks a-piece (Sayra shooed them away from the beer, insisting that they get everyone dancing before they were too drunk to walk upright), the festivities really got underway. As promised, her cousins took up their fiddles and the guests managed to tear themselves away from the food long enough to start the jigs and reels. Thyra was, naturally, everyone’s favorite partner, but no sooner had the bows met the strings than Hervor was approached by three separated dwarrows, all desirous of a dance.

“Maybe later,” she said warmly, taking Dís’s arm. “I’ll dance the first with my cousin, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, you don’t have to - ” Dís began, but Hervor only scoffed at her.

“Come along,” she said, kissing Dís firmly on the cheek. “You are my best girl and don’t you let anyone tell you differently - I’ll always love you best.”

Víli was blessed with the fortunate ability to sing and play at the same time.

 _“And it’s, all for me grog!_  
Me jolly, jolly, grog -  
All for me beer and tobacco!  
For I spent all me tin with a lassie drinking gin!  
Now across the Western Mountains I must wander!”

“Did he write that himself?” One partner of a passing couple wondered aloud.

“Or about himself?” The other chortled.

Hervor snorted, “Poor Víli. Ah well, at least the gossip’s about him and not about us!”

Dís managed to laugh at that. Víli must have seen her laughing and he caught her eye and winked. He had no way of knowing what she was laughing about and he didn’t seem to care; all that mattered to him was she was cheerful.

“He’s special,” Dís declared. Hervor smiled at her.

“They’re _all_ special,” she said. “When you’ve seen as much of the world as I have - ”

“I’ve seen just as much as you!”

“Well, you know,” Hervor went on, “when you see as much of the world as _we_ have, you can tell the tin from the dross. Ugh, hang on, that’s no fair to them - the gold from the gilding, I mean.”

“I know,” Dís said earnestly. “I do know.”

The dancing went on for an hour before Víli claimed he was thirsty and needed another drink - a chorus of boos followed the announcement, but he ignored them good-naturedly and went to fill his tankard.

“Now what was it I heard,” he said to Thorin who was lurking about the drinks and away from Dwalin who kept trying to drag him out onto the floor, “‘bout certain somebodies who got dancing in their hands and ears and all?”

Thorin shook his head and shrugged. “No idea. Couldn’t have been me.”

“Ah, but it was!” Bofur chimed in, having followed his cousin in their constant quest for beer. “Heard it meself, from Dwalin’s brother! Go on, Thorin, give a lad a rest!”

“I don’t play upon the pipe,” Thorin replied.

“Ah, but you do play!” Víli snapped his fingers. “Drums?”

 

“Nay.”

“Fiddle?” Bofur guessed.

“Nah, nothing with a bow,” Thorin replied and bit his tongue for giving that much away. Drink made him sociable, which was not ordinarily a bad thing, but could lead to negative consequences when he had sobered up. Consequences like being asked to sing at parties.

“Hmm...ooh, don’t you worry,” Víli said finally, “I’ll guess! Someday! Drums?”

 

“You guessed that already,” Thorin said, smiling.

“Ah! So I did - come on Bofur, don’t let me face that there crowd alone!”

Thorin was going to find a better hiding place when Dís made her way toward him, those meticulous braids that Hervor had taken such care with mussed from dancing. “Dance with me?” she asked Thorin, holding out her hand. “Hervor’s got admirers.”

“Of course,” Thorin said, setting his drink aside as well as his nerves - he’d vowed before that he’d do anything to make her happy and she was one dancing partner he would never turn down.

Dwalin actually whooped when he saw Thorin coming to join the throng - he himself was an excellent dancer who never lacked for partners and while Thorin was no slouch, nor was he as enthusiastic as his cousin.

“That’s more like it!” Dwalin said approvingly.

“I had a special request!” Thorin shot back. “I’ll be slouching off before long, don’t you worry.”

“Ha!” Dwalin declared, taking it as a challenge, “I won’t let you!”

Dís giggled, red more from laughing than from drink.

“Are you having a good time?” Thorin asked over the noise as he swung her around.

“Oh, aye, I’m having such a good time!” she shouted with sparkling eyes. “It’s...it’s alright, isn’t it?”

Thorin pulled her close and kissed her brow. “It’s alright. I declare it’s alright. Order of the king and all.”

Dís giggled, “That’s a nice order. You should do that more often! Order the sun to shine and winter to hold off and Dori to stop scolding - ”

“Shh!” Thorin hushed her. “The sun and the winter I can have talks with. But Dori won’t be moved.”

Laughing, Dís forgot all about the dancing and threw herself into Thorin’s arms. He lifted her right up and held her close, as she whispered in his ear, “Will it be alright? Really alright?”

Their mother was in their dark rooms all alone. So many of their people were still teetering on the brink of homelessness. Despite what he said, there was no telling when winter would come, whether the Mannish crops would be enough to feed them, whether they’d be pawning their beds for oxen and trading their rents for carts. Thorin had no answers to give, not real ones, nothing he could promise.

“Someday, my girl,” he said, holding her tightly. “Someday, I think it will be. And...you know, I think we’ve made a good start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so tempted to write a follow-up set on Thorin's Name Day - because there's no way this group is letting him turn 100 without having something to say about it - but I thought this was a nice place to end it.


End file.
